Daedra Games
by Golden Naginata
Summary: Instead of reaching Kirkwall and meeting Hawke, Anders winds up in Skyrim and meets the Dragonborn. A tale of redemption. F!Dragonborn.
1. Chapter 1

Obligatory Disclaimer: I own nothing and am not getting paid.

* * *

There are places where the walls between realms are worn perilously thin, even to the point of breaches where things can leak through from one plane of reality to another. Vaermina, Daedric Prince (or possibly Princess) of Nightmares, Dreams, and Memory, was already taking advantage of one such tear in the fabric of space-time to reach in and caress the sleeping minds of the mortals of a place in Skyrim called Dawnstar, when he, she, or it noticed another. Not, in this case, from Quagmire, his/her/its own realm within Oblivion, to Nirn, but from Quagmire to…another place not unlike it. The Fade.

Quagmire: a constantly shifting nightmare realm, closely tied to the source of Magic, visited not only by mages but other mortals when they sleep. The Fade: a constantly shifting nightmare realm, closely tied to the source of Magic, visited by not only mages but other mortals when they sleep. There was very little to choose from between them, really. The lesser spirits, various demons of Desire, Rage, Sloth, Hunger, and Pride who inhabited it might not even have drawn Vaermina's attention, except that at that moment so many of them were clustered around one mortal dreamer, who might have escaped her notice as well. His/her/its interest piqued, Vaermina drove off the demons, who scattered like carrion birds frightened away by a lion, and had a look at the sleeper's mind.

And what a mind it was! A foolish, naïve little mortal who had invited in a spirit without realizing that liquid takes the shape of its container, and so found himself filled with Vengeance! Amusing, but what else was there? Hmmm. A very tasty, unusual flavor of Taint—where did that come from? Tracing back through the mortal's mind, Vaermina looked, through his eyes, at a whole world gone wrong even by Daedric standards, and in most cases Daedric standards were extremely lax about things such as 'right' and 'wrong'. Blights, Archdemons, Darkspawn, Abominations, the persecution of Mages…

'IDIOTS!' Vaermina snarled at the demons. 'You're using them up too quickly! When they're all gone, what will you do? Be bored throughout eternity? If you don't play by the rules, what is the point of the game?!'

Partly because Vaermina was offended, partly because of its ties to magic—he/she/it even chose to manifest in the mortal realms as a mage with a staff, and partly because this dreamer's mind truly was intriguing, he/she/it reached out through the Fade into the mortal realm on the other side and seized the dreamer bodily, drawing him into her own realm in physical form.

The Daedra were fond of playing games, using mortals both as playing pieces and as prizes. This one, who thought of himself as 'Anders', might potentially belong to any of them, having tendencies which made him fair game. As a mage, he was attractive to Vaermina, but his dual nature, thanks to Justice/Vengeance, appealed to the Father of Man Beasts, Hircine. He was a plotter, which made him one of Mephala, the Webspinner's get, and yet he had so much potential for deceit, treason and betrayal that Boethia was sure to want him too.

Half mad, he could as easily be Sheogorath's, bent on self-destruction—that was an aspect of Sanguine, tainted so that Namira and Peryite would surely fight over him—but then he had also fought the darkness and the undead, so Meridia, stick in the mud that she was, could call him hers, and that longing for a deep and abiding love would move Azura, the Lady of Dawn and Dusk… Malacath, god of the cursed and the outcast would offer him protection, while Clavicus Vile, the Prince of bad bargains would surely claim him. Hermaeus Mora, Mehrunes Dagon, Nocturnal, representing Forbidden Knowledge, Destruction, and Darkness respectively, had their own share in his psyche. Arguably, Molag Bal, god of rape, violation, and vampires mightn't have an interest in this Anders, but Molag was sure to want in on a game when everybody else was playing. Besides, vampirism was a form of blood magic, and one never knew when or where temptation would strike.

So: now to set him loose in the world of Nirn, but where? Skyrim, where the rent in the worlds was ready and waiting? Of course. They were already playing for the Dragonborn there anyhow…

With that, Vaermina thrust Anders, refugee from Denerim, apostate mage and runaway Grey Warden, host to a spirit a little more powerful than he could handle, out into the middle of the Pale on the coldest night so far that year.

* * *

Picking up the quill, I weighed the corners of the paper scroll down with a couple of tankards and a bowl of apples before I dipped the pen in ink. Pausing to look out over the water (Proudspire Manor's patio offered an excellent view of the sea), I composed my thoughts and began writing.

**_Skyrim: The Thedan Immigrants' Guide To Your New Home_**

_By: Anders, Archmage of the College of Winterhold. _

_If you are reading this, you are a mage, an Elf, or a refugee from Fereldan, possibly all three, and you have made the decision to emigrate across the Bridge to this more hospitable realm. Yes, although you will have to contend with the locals, known as Nords, many of whom are somewhat suspicious of magic, Elves, and strangers in general, not to mention being overly fond of mead and weapons that take two hands to lift, it is still a hundred times better than Thedas. _

_Congratulations. You have made the right choice. However, it is for the best that you prepare as much as you can. _

_To begin with, Skyrim is uniformly much colder than the Free Marches or most of Fereldan, saving only the Frostback Mountains, and the weather is capricious, changing in minutes. Purchase or make the warmest clothing you can, for your life will depend on it. Then go out and get even warmer gear—a tent, bedrolls, and such. There is no telling exactly where you will emerge, and it may be miles from any settlement. While we will have people looking out for immigrants like yourselves, the cold is deadly and the landscape is sometimes barren of anything that will burn. I speak from personal experience.'_

Pausing again, I remembered.

I had been crammed into the hold of the ship along with a hundred other refugees from the ravaged land of Fereldan, sailing for a more hopeful future in Kirkwall. On the run from both the Templars and my fellow Grey Wardens, I had not slept in days—indeed, I could not remember the last time I had properly slept, so once I was en route, small wonder that I succumbed so deeply that even getting shipwrecked had not roused me completely.

That was what I thought had happened, you see. One moment, I'm dreaming of darkspawn as usual, vaguely aware of the motions of the ship and the bodies huddled in around me, the next I was freezing cold, alone in a blasted wilderness on dry land—well, not _dry_ exactly, because of all the snow and ice—and what was I to make of it? I thought we were shipwrecked and I was soaked and sinking. Except that I could breathe…well, perhaps I had only gotten doused with water, but that water was colder than the strongest frost spell and cut like a knife through my robes.

I was still dreaming, I was sure of it. How unfair. Still, this new dream was devoid of darkspawn, a nice change of pace, and there might yet be naked dancing girls and litters of kittens before a feast of roast ox. If only it would get warmer… I looked around. It was a clear night, at least, if windy, and the light cast by the moon—by the _two_ moons—made it a very bright one.

I stamped around in the freezing cold until I could no longer feel my toes, my arms wrapped around my body and my hands in my armpits to keep my fingers warm. Mages, fortunately or unfortunately, can't feel their own magefire, or we would all burn up before we were twenty. There was no point in even trying to start a fire, as there was nothing but ice, snow, and rocks as far as I could see. Besides, if I successfully cast a spell in my sleep, I might damage the ship and then we really would be shipwrecked. What a boring dream this was. I decided to set off on foot, heading toward the sound of the waves.

It did not bother me then that I could not feel any connection to the Fade, for I believed I was still deep in it. Nor did it bother me that my…passenger was being terribly quiet, because he always was when I was dreaming, since he couldn't get back into the Fade. Mind you, Justice wasn't gone, but he was fully aware that we weren't where we should be and was lying low in the back of my head. I reached the shoreline, where several huge blubbery animals with tusks lay around making honking noises—I stayed well clear of them—and then I was attacked by an enormous white bear. Dream or no, the pain of its claws tearing into the meat of my leg was excruciating. That was when I learned that my staff was worthless unless I used it like a club, which I did, while at the same time trying to shoot fireballs at it. All I could manage was a mere gout of flame, and trying to cast that was like trying to wade sideways through mud, but it saved my life. Casting Heal on myself afterward was no trouble at all, at least, but what the hell kind of dream _was _this?

Leaving the beach, I ventured inland once more. Thus far the only signs of habitation I had seen were a couple of smashed barrels on the high-tide line. Perhaps I was alone in this dream world…I would be glad to wake up from it, and that couldn't happen too soon for me…

I walked. And walked. Then I trudged, slower and slower, and it seemed to me that I must be drying out, because I no longer felt so cold. All I felt was tired. So terribly tired. Well, I had been worn out, and what was wrong with sleeping within a dream? I could wake up from both sleeps at the same time, doubly rested.

What was really happening was that I was literally starting to freeze to death. Finding a spot in the lee of a rock, I sat down out of the wind, drew my knees up so I could slump my head on them, and dozed off.

How long I was like that, I cannot say, but suddenly, out of nowhere, someone said in a curiously accented voice, "M'aiq thinks this is a very strange place to take a nap, stranger. Especially since you do not have the beautiful thick pelt of a Khajit. It is very well for M'aiq to travel about in only a robe, because he does."

I opened up my eyes to gaze directly into the face of a tiger. "Oh, this is better," I said happily, or tried to say, because my face was unaccountably stiff and felt thick and faraway. Talking tiger men—now that was a proper dream!

"M'aiq does not believe it is healthy for you to stay here like this. Come," he helped me up—more like lifting me bodily onto my feet. "M'aiq takes you to someone who is very very good at helping, no?"

"If you like," I replied, foggily. "But where is M'aiq? There's only you and me here…"

"This one's name is M'aiq," He pointed a clawed finger at his own chest as he hoisted my arm about his shoulders. "Among the Khajit, one does not speak of oneself as 'I' except among family, you understand."

"Uh—no, I don't actually." We started to walk, with him half carrying me.

"It does not matter. M'aiq knows many things, but there are things he does not know. Such as where to find calipers. Do you happen to have such a thing as a pair of calipers about your person? M'aiq has sought for them everywhere, yet he finds none. It is very sad…"

Somehow or other he kept me shuffling along, over the tundra and into a small copse of evergreen trees where someone had pitched the simplest possible tent, a rectangle of skins draped over a rope stretched between trees, the sides weighted down with rocks to keep them apart, open to the air at both ends.

"Hello? M'aiq is very sorry to wake you, but he has brought you something." Unceremoniously, he slung me inside the tent, practically on top of the occupant, who yelped in protest. To me he said, "M'aiq bids you farewell now, stranger. If you by chance ever find calipers, he begs you to remember him."

Inside the tent, it was dark but not particularly cold. Not cold at all, in fact. "Sorry," I apologized to the person, who was fighting their way out of their bedroll.

"_What_ is going on?" It was a reasonable question under the circumstances. The person was female and sounded youngish. A light flared, brilliantly white, and I looked into a face which changed from outraged to shocked to horrified in less than the blink of an eye. "Move off my pack! You need a healing potion, but I can't _get_ to them while you're kneeling on them."

And that was how I met the Dragonborn….

TBC…


	2. Shivering

I suppose everyone has had the fantasy about being caught somewhere with an attractive stranger on a night so cold you _have _to huddle together for warmth, and one thing leads to another so by morning you are no longer strangers even though you might not have exchanged names. It is not a fantasy I will ever have again. Ever. I was trying to tell her I was fine, thank you, but I wanted to wake up now even as she was breaking the seal on a pint bottle of healing potion. Then I caught sight of my hand as I reached for the bottle, and it was dark purple with patches of yellow-white and spots of red where the capillaries had burst and frozen. If my face looked anything like that, no wonder she was horrified. Also, I still couldn't move or feel my fingers and toes, so I admitted, " A healing potion might go down well about now, after all."

"Here, sit up a little," she instructed, and held the bottle so I could gulp from it. Then I gagged, because it tasted like fish oil mixed with rotten eggs and slimy mushrooms, not like nice normal soothing elfroot, but I got it down, all of it, and kept it down.

"Gah! What was in that?" I asked as she took the empty vial from my lips. Whatever reply she might have made was lost on me, because the potion started to work, and by the Maker, freezing had hurt and so did healing up from it. Itching, burning, flares of pain all through me, my digits, my limbs, my face especially. She had to hold on to me lest I bring the tent down with my thrashing. I nearly vomited, and the only thing that kept me from doing so was the knowledge that I would have to taste that potion _all over again_. Finally the storm in my body subsided, and all that was left was violent shivering, bone deep, almost convulsions.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked, her lips so close to my ear I could feel her breath.

"Ye—yes. I'm just so c-cold now." And my teeth were chattering so hard I was afraid they would chip and shatter.

"Think you could manage some warmed spiced wine?" she said, letting me go very carefully.

"Yes. P-p-please. Th-thank you, too, bu-by the way. My name is An-nders."

"I'm Eryka Breton-blood." She replied, turning away to hunt through her pack. I heard the sounds of clinking, a cork coming out of a bottle and the splash of liquid being poured, and a 'foosh' noise that didn't immediately register. I was still shivering as though I would never stop, but now enough of my brain had unfrozen so I could notice a few things as she turned back with a tankard in her hands. Yes, she was youngish, as her voice had promised. She had dark wavy hair drawn back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and greenish-hazel eyes. Was she beautiful?

Beauty is vastly overrated. The most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life was Queen Anora of Fereldan, and it was common knowledge that she lay in bed until noon every day gathering the strength to challenge the ravages of time before submitting to the ministrations of four maids for three hours being bathed, painted, trussed up, dressed, and otherwise tended to before she set foot outside her bedchamber. I don't like to speak ill of a lady but she…was not a nice person, and I would not have wanted to bed her even between silk sheets after a peck of oysters and a bottle of fizzy Orlesian wine.

By contrast, Elissa Cousland, Hero of Fereldan and the Warden-Commander who had saved me from the Templars, will always rank in my mind as one of the most attractive women I've ever met. She regularly whacked off her hair any which way so her helmet fit better and her beauty routine involved sticking her head in a bucket of cold water every morning and bellowing "Arrgh!" before dragging a comb through her hair and throwing on her armor to go out and fight darkspawn. In addition to which, her nose had once been broken when an ogre hit her in the face. But her smile—if she had wanted me—I had been half in love with her, but that was long ago and far away.

So—no. Eryka Breton-blood was not what most would call beautiful. She had a nose that was a little too long, a mouth that was too wide and eyebrows like thick dashes of ink. Although believe me, anyone who is willing to pour healing potions down the throat of a half-dead, shivering stranger and hang on to them while they shudder and suffer and cry out in agony, is, to my mind at least, very beautiful indeed. Under those circumstances, I'd even call a broodmother beautiful.

I took the tankard from her hand very carefully. "There's more," she told me. "I didn't make it too full so it wouldn't spill."

"I ap-ppreciate it," I said, sipping it and letting the warmth seep through me. "It's a shame h-healing potions don't taste this g-good." And the wine was good. I could taste familiar hints in it, nutmeg and cinnamon and clove, as well as some I didn't know. Whether that was the wine or the spice I couldn't tell.

It was beginning to occur to me that I might not be dreaming at all, and as more bits of my brain defrosted, I realized that this tent had no right to be so nice and warm. There was no fire to warm it, and it was just a short tube of skins, open to the cold and freezing winds at either end, Even though the hides had been tanned with the fur on, surely that wasn't enough—.

"What possessed you to go out into the Pale on a night like this in these flimsy things?" Eryka scolded maternally, plucking at my sleeve. "Or—oh, I'm sorry." She apologized. "For all I know, you didn't have any choice. Did something happen?"

"Something—yes, something happened," I said, wrapping my hands around the tankard, absorbing the warmth. "I was on a ship heading for Kirkwall…" I explained about finding myself alone, about the rocky, icy beach with the blubbery things ("Horkers," she nodded) and the bear, and walking and walking, then sitting down and being found by M'aiq. Looking back, I realize I garbled things so it sounded like I started out on the beach, which made the whole business sound saner than it was.

"I've never heard of Kirkwall," Eryka said, pouring me more wine and splashing some in a tankard for herself. " But whether you fell overboard or were shipwrecked, tomorrow you can go to Dawnstar and talk to one of the captains of the ships there. They go everywhere along the coast."

"Thanks, but if it comes to it, I would as soon be here as in Kirkwall. It wasn't where I was going to so much as what I was leaving behind…where is here, anyhow?" I was not wholly convinced I was not dreaming, not yet.

"The Pale. It's the Hold of Jarl Skald the Elder."

"'Jarl?'" I asked. "Not 'Arl'?"

"Jarl, that's right," she nodded. "We don't have a High King at the moment, which is a longer story than deserves telling right now.

The title was similar enough that we might be somewhere near Fereldan after all. "What about the name of the country, what's that?"

"Skyrim." she replied. "To the east of us is Morrowind, to the south is Cyrodill with Black Marsh in between them, to the west are Hammerfell and High Rock. More or less, anyway. " She smiled. "Mind you, I can only vouch for High Rock, because that's the only one I've actually been to. The rest could be hearsay."

"Fair enough—but I've never heard of any of them." I sipped more wine.

Then the brilliant white light illuminating the tent began to fade. Eryka made a little gesture with her left hand, there was a little sound like 'Paf!', and a bright mote of light burst from her fingers.

For a moment I just gaped. "Are you…are you a mage?"

"Me?" She shook her head. "I just do a little magic, that's all. I only know about a dozen spells. Someday, when things have quieted down and I've made up my mind which school to specialize in, I'll go to Winterhold and study seriously. Right now, life is rather too complicated. I'm quite good at enchanting, however."

My brain seemed to have frozen solid again. "If I understand you aright," I began carefully, "and I am a stranger here, so forgive my ignorance—you can _do_ magic, but you _don't_ call yourself a mage. That's strange to me, because where I am from, just being able to do any magic means you're considered a mage."

"Really? A real mage would sneer at me if I claimed that. I know one that does anyway, Farengar Secret-Fire. But he sneers at everybody so I don't take it personally." She sipped her wine, and I studied the light that shone on us, and the unworried expression on her face.

"What—ah—where do mages and people like you, people who can just do magic, live, here?" I asked, probing.

She didn't call herself a mage because she _only_ knew how to do about a dozen spells. How many spells did they have here? I had never seen a spell that produced anything like that useful little mote of light. It spoke of a casual use of magic I could hardly comprehend. Think of it—a world where you could simply use magic.

"Well, I live in Whiterun when I'm not on the road, I have a house there. Nearly every Jarl has a court wizard. Siddgeir of Falkreath doesn't; I think his last one quit because he kept demanding she do magic to entertain him. If he wants entertainment he ought to hire a Bard… Then most priests are also healers, and very powerful ones, too. Their bond with their god allows them to draw on the Divine. Who else…?" She shifted so she was facing me cross legged. "I don't mind talking, but let's have your boots off while I do." She snapped her fingers, pointing at my feet.

"What? Why?" I asked, startled.

"Because I want to be sure your toes aren't going to fall off or something."

"All right. I'm sure they're fine, though." I tossed the rest of the wine back in one gulp, put the tankard aside, and went to work on my bootlaces. She went back to talking.

"Most alchemists do some magic, to bring out all the virtue of the potions and preserve them. Then there's the College of Winterhold. The Arch-mage and the masters of each school live there, along with the novices and apprentices. Once a student reaches Adept level, they kick them out to get some real-world experience. The Jarl of Winterhold hates mages, by the way. Foot, foot." She gestured at my naked left foot and began probing the toes. "Do you feel that?"

"Yes—ow! I felt that, too." She had jabbed the big toe hard with her thumbnail. "What happens because the Jarl hates mages?"

"Not much. He complains a lot, or so I hear, but Winterhold's an impoverished place and he needs the taxes they pay." She finished inspecting that foot and went on to the right one.

"So—," I tried to put my thoughts in order, but they were eluding me and my heart was racing in my chest. It was as though I were walking while carrying a large spoon brimming with water and trying my best not to spill a drop, only I was also the spoon and the water at the same time. "What would happen if you were to do magic out where everyone could see, on the streets of Whiterun or, or—anywhere else."

She shrugged, and her inky eyebrows quirked. "Provided I wasn't hurting anyone or damaging anything, a guard might say something like, 'Hey there! Watch the magic!'" She tested all the toes on that foot and decided my feet would be all right.

As a healer, I knew Eryka was doing exactly what should be done in a case of frostbite, checking the extremities for lingering damage, and I ought to have been grateful this woman was willing to make sure my toes weren't going to rot and poison me. Instead, I looked at her, and suspicion began to bloom in my heart. I was beginning to hope, and hope is a perilous trap. I was determined not to be caught.

"What if someone were to turn to blood magic or traffic with demons?" I asked. "Or doesn't that happen here?" She had pretty hair. The crisp ripples in it were like the grain of some rare wood polished to a shine, and her mouth, although wide, was generous and sweet-looking. I wanted her to be real; I wanted that very much.

"Oh, it happens," she said, sounding exasperated. "Necromancy is a bigger problem than vampirism. Trafficking with demons—almost any mage can conjure minor Daedra for at least a little while, but the evil Daedric Princes really don't find most mortals that interesting. If their worshippers bore them…well, then worship is its own punishment. If not, then they'd best hope the Vigilants of Stendarr don't find them. It's funny how people who worship the Divine of Mercy and Justice (At his name, Justice flared up in the back of my mind) can be so humorless and cruel. I never yet met a Vigilant I'd want to stand a drink for in a tavern. Perishing grand battlemages, most of them, though."

"So the people who police mages are mages themselves?" I asked, feeling disappointment sluice through me like ice water. "That goes beyond what I can swallow. It's a pity, really. You are the most subtle Desire Demon I ever encountered, you truly are."

Her jaw dropped open. "I'm _what_?"

I ignored her, because Justice—or Vengeance, rather, was heating up, surging forward. "Even to the point where you made yourself look humanly imperfect… This is just a wish-fulfillment dream you plucked out of my heart, and that is—unforgiveable!"

It was Vengeance who said the last words, and I could not control him as he swept over me. I do not know what he might have done, because Eryka uttered, no, _shouted_ two words which sent me flying like a torn scrap of paper, and I knew no more.


	3. Woodsmoke and Lavender

_(Note: Piece of a torn pamphlet found in an empty tenement house in the Kirkwall Alienage. Twenty-seven reported missing. Templar Knight-Captain Cullen_)

Fragment begins—dan Immigrant's Guide to Your New Home—

Second consideration: Lyrium. Don't bother bringing any. There is no lyrium in Skyrim. There are also no darkspawn, no Abominations, no Blight, no Templars, and no one here is made Tranquil. Can anyone else see the connection? At any rate, something here causes all forms of lyrium to decay rapidly and become completely inert and useless within hours. If you're a mage, don't bother bringing your staff unless you need a walking stick. Runes will also quit working. There is still plenty of magic, although you will need to relearn certain things. More good news is, here you don't have to be Tranquil to cast enchantments on—Fragment ends.

* * *

Leather. Wood smoke. Crushed pine needles. Lavender. Lavender? These were not the shipboard smells I had come to know and loathe. The ship had been one huge fug of odors including, but not limited to, unwashed bodies, dead fish, smoked nug meat, and mabari shit. I opened my eyes to see a neatly stitched leather seam inches from my nose. The night before—the snowy wastes, the tiger-man, the tent, and the girl. The girl! I was in her tent and covered up in a cloak of tawny, thick fur.

I rolled over and my head nearly came off, or at least that was how it felt. I Healed away the pain, feeling my skull for any damage. All I found were some stray pine needles. Then I let myself look at the person lying next to me, her head down by my feet. All I could see of Eryka from this angle, without sitting up and disturbing her, was her dark hair. If she was real—if this was real, if Skyrim was real and everything was as she had said—I wasn't quite ready to face the implications. I lowered my head to the ground again.

It was morning, but not a very bright one, at least not yet. The light trickling in at either end of the tent was grey and diffuse, soft as old linen. Again I wondered at how warm it was in there. Stretching my arm over my head, I stuck my hand outside—then yanked it back, because it was_ cold_ out there. But not in here…Experimenting, I reached out again. The zone of warmth started and ended at the tent cover. Some kind of enchantment was at work here. It could be nothing else. Yet magic and enchantments only worked on magical cold, not the natural kind, or at least it had back in Thedas. It seemed things worked very differently here. But how? And how had I come here in the first place?

All of these questions were somewhat overshadowed for the moment by the fact that I had to relieve myself. There is nothing more apt to put a clamp on a man's bladder than the fear that his manhood will freeze off, though. While I am often troubled by internal conflict, it usually isn't so physical. What to do…I had to decide before much longer, or the problem would, ah, take care of itself.

Then I heard a deep, waking inhalation, that first conscious breath that means someone is back in their body and checking to make sure everything is there and still works. My tentmate raised herself up on her elbows and glowered at me. Right. Last night I had wrongfully accused and attacked a person who saved my life and had been nothing but kind to me. Instead of leaving my sorry arse out to freeze solid, she had dragged me back in the tent and covered me up. (Not to mention that she knew the way out of this frozen hell and back to civilization and I didn't.)

"Eryka, I have to apologize and explain—."

"Uhh. Not— just now," she made a gesture as to fend off any attempt to talk as she wriggled out of her bedroll. "Give me a moment. I've got to—. Wh're my boots?" Finding them , she pulled them on, whisked the cloak off me and around her shoulders, and climbed out of the tent. "Make off with my things, and I will leave your body for the scavengers!" she tossed behind her as she disappeared into a thicket.

"Nothing could be further from my mind," I called back, putting on my own boots. Groveling, begging for forgiveness, pleading that I would do anything, anything at all if she wouldn't abandon me in the snowy wastes, yes. Stealing her gear, no. But any desperate plea I might make would have to wait until after I attended to my own business, of course. I found a handy tree and turned some snow yellow.

Women take longer about answering the call of nature than men, so I was first back to the tent, where I took the opportunity to examine my staff. It was somewhat the worse for wear after having been used to cudgel a bear, but no amount of damage should have affected the lyrium it was infused with. Instead of coruscating with cool fire, it had gone dull grey. Even the damage-enhancing runes had gone dark and dead. Acting on a hunch, I dug in my belt pouch for the two small vials of lyrium potion I had stashed there. Something had happened to them, too. Instead of the silvery-blue liquid I knew, these were simply water with a greyish sludge at the bottom. Opening one, I tried a drop on my tongue. It tasted like stale water. What could cause lyrium to decay like that? Something told me it was nothing to do with the extreme cold and everything to do with why this place was so different.

"Do you still think I'm some sort of Seducer Daedra?" Eryka stuck her head in the tent, eyeing me warily.

"Seducer Daedra?" I had said Desire Demon but she interpreted it as Seducer Daedra. Maybe we were talking about the same thing. "Ah, no."

"Are we likely to have a repeat of last night?" she asked.

"No."

"Good." She sat down opposite me. "I'm ready to hear you out now."

"First of all, I want to tell you that I am deeply and profoundly grateful to you for last night, twice over. You could have killed me any way you pleased or just left me out to die of exposure, and that was after I insulted you and attacked you. I don't know why you didn't, but thank you."

"Well...I might have, if it weren't M'aiq who brought you," she admitted. "I am not sure exactly what M'aiq is, but he's not just another Khajiit. However, what I want to know is, why turn on me at all?" She fixed her eyes on me, somber and serious.

There was something fire-eaten about her, something like my connection to my passenger. Clearly I should not have thought of him, because now he spoke up. It was not a conversation. Justice/Vengeance and I don't have conversations. He just takes over my mind at times, and I find myself having thoughts that I know are his.

What he interjected now was: _Propitiate her_. _I/we require her aid_. I assure you, I would never voluntarily think the word 'propitiate' about anyone. It's just such a stick-up-the-arse word. Anyhow, I was the one who was apologizing, so I ignored him.

"It's…complicated. Remember how I told you that where I'm from, if you can do any magic at all, no matter how small, you're considered a mage?" She nodded.

"There's more to it than that. Once you're found out, once people know you're a mage—it's a sentence to life in prison. They take you from your family and send you to a place called the Circle, supposedly to learn, but really to be watched, scrutinized your whole life by people who hate mages so much that your Jarl of Winterhold loves them like a brother in comparison. There is no aspect of your life that the Templars don't interfere with, and they can do what they like with you or to you, with no fear of punishment. If you don't comply, if you fight back, their solution is to burn out part of your mind and leave you a passionless dullard the rest of your life.

"So when you answered me as you did, when you described what life was like for mages and magic users here—that's everything I ever wanted. Then with you being compassionate and resourceful and, and, intelligent—" _and attractive_, but no, I wasn't going to say that, not now, possibly not ever. "I—couldn't believe it. It was too much."

She thought it over. "And for that you tried to kill me?"

"I am sorry. Truly. Please forgive me. I am utterly alone here, I have no knowledge of this land, its people or its customs—without your help and your friendship, I will be lost in every sense of the word." _Good_. That was Justice's comment, which disturbed me.

Eryka thought about it again, her brows drawn together. "I make no promises. From here I planned on going to Dawnstar, so we'll start by getting to Dawnstar. I've an errand to run there. If we can do that peacefully and you want to continue traveling with me, from there I planned to hire a carriage and go home to Whiterun. If that goes well, when we get to Whiterun, we can talk further. Unless you want to find a ship at Dawnstar to wherever you were going, that is."

"I'm not sure there are any ships that would take me there, and even if there were—the place I was going was little better than the place I left behind. I will follow you for as long as you'll have me."

"Well then!" She clapped her hands together. "There is a sack with food behind you there. Let's eat."

_But I/we __**will**__ return_. Justice whispered. _I/we will learn about this world. She will guide me/us. I/we will learn how we got here, I/we will return, and __**then I/we will bring the others here**__. All the mages. Any and all who wish to come._

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A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed. I can't send Lisa a PM, so I will express my appreciation here. A tremendous thank you to you. I plan to reveal some of Eryka's history and background in the next chapter.

Speaking of next chapter and beyond—Sometimes vanilla just doesn't cut it.(Which is why PC players mod the hell out of their games.)

If Skyrim were a real country they'd be in serious trouble even without all the dragons, bandits, necromancers and civil conflicts. I know Bethesda had to limit things or the game would be too huge, the programming too complicated, but if the game were to be taken exactly literally, then there are only about forty children, all of whom are eight to ten years old—no babies, no toddlers, no teens— in the entire country. Plus one of them's a ghost and another a three hundred year old vampire.

There are never any baby animals of any kind. The seasons never change, nobody wears heavier clothing in the snowy areas, there are very few fruits and vegetables either in cultivation or growing wild, and nothing ever goes bad or out of season. All the woven cloth must be made of goat hair, tundra cotton, or maybe spider silk, because there aren't any sheep and the only place you can find linen is in draugr tombs. You never find herbs like frost mirrim or elves' ear growing anywhere, and you can't order an enchanting table for Breezehome instead of an alchemy lab. I could keep going, but you get the idea.

So I'm going to put in things that aren't in the game but logically should exist in that world. Enough said.


	4. Dawnstar

After breakfasting on bread and cheese, we broke camp. Of course, when I say 'we', I mean Eryka, because she had it down to an art, although I had to wonder why she took out a dagger and started punching holes along one edge of the tent. That mystery was solved when she beckoned me over and draped it over my head before threading leather laces through the holes.

"Not the prettiest cloak in the world, but it'll have to do," she said, assessing her handiwork. For a woman, she was rather tall—I am tall myself, and she was perhaps three inches shorter than I.

"I'll take warm over stylish any day," I replied. "Again, my thanks."

"It makes little sense to live through the night only to have you catch your death during the day," she shrugged.

"Which way do we go from here?" I asked, looking around at the endless snow.

"Dawnstar is about two miles away. You see the stone piles over there?" She pointed to the west of us. "They mark the road. There's a fine of a thousand septims if you're caught destroying one of them, and that's if the Jarl's feeling generous."

"I can understand why, " I said, following her as she started toward the nearest pillar. "Wandering off the road around here could be fatal."

The cobblestone road itself was mostly clear, swept bare by the scouring winds, but where wagon wheels, hooves and feet had packed the snow down, there was now ice. It made for slow going; whether we picked our way as carefully as we could over the ice or tried to walk through the thicker snow alongside the beaten path, we took at least two hours to get there, when if it were clear, it might have taken half an hour. It wasn't really possible to hold a conversation while walking, either. Too much slipping and lurching.

Finally: "This is Dawnstar, capital city of the Pale," Eryka nodded at the…city. To my eyes it was a small town made up of about a dozen houses, most of them simple thatched cottages, clustered around a harbor.

"Is this the typical size of most cities in Skyrim?" I asked, looking down on it from our vantage point on the road.

"No, it's called a city mostly out of courtesy to the Jarl. It _is_ the largest settlement in the Hold, though. Come on, all this standing around won't get our feet warm!. We're paying a call on the blacksmiths, and their forge never goes cold." Erkya started down the slope to the 'city'.

The smithy was built onto a covered porch adjacent to one of the cottages, and it was warm enough for anyone. The smith who was at work when we approached was a large and bulky man with prematurely graying hair, muscles that strained the seams of his shirt, and huge calloused hands. When he saw Eryka, he set down his tools. "Ah, welcome back." He greeted her. "It's good to see you again."

"Rustleif," she replied. "The same to you. This is Anders. He's traveling with me."

"Anders," he nodded pleasantly before he turned back to Eryka. "I don't suppose you found it?"

"Yes, I did," she said, setting down her pack and pulling a book from it.

"That's wonderful." He wiped his sooty hands carefully on a rag before he took the tome and leafed through it carefully. "Night Falls On Sentinel. I don't know why they set such store in reading in Hammerfell, but it will make my Seren very happy."

"How is she doing?" Eryka asked.

"Much better now that she's not being sick in the mornings anymore. Starting to big up, too. I'm going to keep this for a surprise." The smith smiled, closed the book and tucked it out of sight behind his woodpile. "Now, how much do I owe you?"

"It cost me nothing, so you owe me nothing," she waved off any obligation. "I happened to come across it, that's all."

"But you remembered, and that means a lot to me. Here, what if I show you a few tricks with the forge I've learned over the years?"

At that moment, there was a loud crash from within the house, a simultaneous cry of pain, and then a visibly pregnant woman burst out through the door to snatch up a handful of snow and press it to her opposite forearm.

"Seren! What happened?" Rustleif rushed over to the woman.

"I was draining the grease off the sausages and splashed myself," she sobbed, mashing the snow against her arm. She had fine, clear dark skin and fine bone structure, quite a contrast to her spouse. "I'm so tired and clumsy these days."

"May I have a look?" I stepped in. "I might be able to do something." I could see the burn was already blistering. I took her wrist, gently turning her arm. The melting snow dripped down off her elbow; the burn was still full of heat. Should I truly be trying to do this? I recalled the mess I had made of the fireball spell when the bear attacked me. But I had healed myself without any trouble…I cast Heal on her arm, and _yes_, thank the Maker, there was the familiar golden glow flowing from me to the injury. The rising blemishes reabsorbed, leaving her arm unmarred.

"Oh! The pain's gone…A healing spell? Are you a priest?" Seren asked.

"No, I'm…." Would I not have to come out and say it sooner or later? "just a mage with some small healing talent."

"But that's a fine thing," Rustleif said heartily. "Skyrim needs more healers. And seeing what our friend gets into, she'll do well to have a healer close at hand. " He clapped me on the shoulder, staggering me. "My thanks to you, friend." _That?_ _That_ was how people of Skyrim reacted when they learned someone was a mage? Andraste, let me live here the rest of my life!

"And mine, twice over," Seren added. "Why don't you come inside while Eryka and my man do their bartering? I'm making kahve." If the smell coming from the cottage was any indication, what she called kahve was the very fashionable Orlesian drink caffee.

"Thank you, I'd like that very much," I said, following her into the house, "I'm Anders, by the way." It was a simple place, only one room, but kept very clean and tidy. By the look of things, they were preparing for the anticipated baby. Someone was halfway through building what had to be a cradle, and that had to be a stack of baby clothes on that cupboard.

"And I'm Seren, Rustleif's wife. Just put your cloak down on the bed and rest yourself by the fire, " Seren instructed, wiping spilled grease off the floor. "Do other Nords chivvy you much for being a mage?"

"Not so far," I said, slipping the tent-turned-cloak off and doing as I was told. "But I'm not from Skyrim."

"Really? You look as Nord as any man around, if a bit on the lean side. Even your name is Nord...Uh, do you mind if I ask you, as a healer-," she paused.

"Yes?" I prompted.

"I don't suppose there's anything you can do about bad dreams, is there?"

"No," I replied. "I am sorry. Any potion that would make you sleep deep enough not to have them or not to remember them would leave you logy for most of the day. Also, it would be bad for your baby."

She touched her belly protectively. "That is the last thing I would want, but it isn't only me. It seems as though everyone in Dawnstar has been sleeping poorly of late. The Divines know there are reasons enough to give us all bad dreams-the war, the dragons, our port getting a bad name among the sailors, yet this seems-. But those are our troubles and not yours. Have you been traveling with Eryka long?"

"Not long," I said.

"Well, I can tell you're already an improvement over either of the others."

"Others?" I echoed.

"Yes. The last time she was here, she had Uthgerd following her. That woman was brutal and stupid with it. The tale she told about herself! She killed a man, a mere lad, while sparring with him—it was only supposed to show off their fighting form, but she came on too rough. Uthgerd had a grievance against him for dying.

"The one before that, Livia, Lynda—something like that—was_ snotty_. Heaved a sigh whenever she was asked to help carry. Thought she was too good to be sworn to the Dragonborn. And that was right after Eryka slew a dragon that was attacking our town. I was there, and I saw and heard it all." While she spoke, she got down four glazed earthenware cups and spooned honey into them before carefully dividing the contents of a steaming metal pot among them.

"Eryka slew a dragon?" That would make her the second dragonslayer of my acquaintance.

"Yes. You truly haven't been traveling with her for long, have you?"

"I guess she hadn't got around to telling me about that yet." Dragonborn? What did that mean?

I might have asked had Seren not called out, "Kahve's ready!"

"Ah, that's good," Rustleif said with satisfaction as he entered the cottage. "Kahve's something I brought back from Hammerfell with me, same as I brought Seren. Ha, there are those who scoffed at me for liking kahve because they think any drink that's not fermented is the same as milk, but these days, we're all living on the stuff. Call me a milk-drinker now, will they?"

He accepted a cup from his wife, who passed others to Eryka and to me, saying, "We're lucky we live on the trade route. We can always get tea and kahve. So—what was it this time? Bandits? Bears? Another dragon?"

"An ancient tomb full of necromancers and draugr, and I didn't even get what I went there for," Eryka sipped carefully at the fluid in her cup, and I followed suit. I'd had Orlesian-style caffee a few times, but in Orlais they mix it with hot milk. Hammerfell-style kahve was bittersweet and almost thick enough to eat with a spoon.

"What, and you had to fight your way through both?" Rustleif exclaimed. "Joining forces with a healer may be the first sensible thing you've done in months."

"No, it wasn't so bad," Eryka denied, "because the necromancers had got there first. They and the draugr were killing each other…"

I fear I contributed little to the conversation, but on the other hand, I couldn't have done too badly, for they invited us to stay and share their noon meal. Justice/Vengeance lurked quietly throughout, but I could feel him observing everything, considering. Eryka declined the offer of lunch, saying that we had to leave for Whiterun if we were to reach it before dark.

"I gather I passed the test?" I asked as we went to hire a carriage.

"So far, yes," she said, and to the driver, "Two for Whiterun, please."

"That'll be forty, and climb on up," he said, curtly. "Ye are lucky I've not switched to the sleigh yet, since Whiterun won't get the snow for another month, like as not. I can still get all the way through."

"Thank you," she said, and we climbed aboard.

I looked around as we began the climb back up the hill to the main road. Still nothing but snow, rocks, ice, and some evergreens. Beautiful, yes, but lacking in variety. "So, since it seems we've a long ride ahead of us, may I ask a few questions?"

"If I may answer or not as I choose," she replied smoothly, a hint of a smile tugging at that generous mouth. "Mind you, a question I find impertinent now may be all right to ask in four hours time."

"Do I get a warning before you kick me off the back of the carriage for getting too personal?" I returned.

"How personal were you planning to be?" she asked, the hint growing into a dimple. Maker's breath, we were half-flirting. When did I last flirt with anyone?

"Not _that_ personal," I stifled the impulse to draw it out, lead it (and her) on. I couldn't do that—I couldn't be intimate with anyone. I could not _want_ to be intimate with anyone. If she knew she would be revolted and if she didn't she could be in danger. I still had a right hand and an imagination, and that would have to suffice.

Wait a moment, how had she dealt with my—with_ Justice's_ little lapse last night? Realizing that she was staring at me with a puzzled expression—and perhaps a bit disappointed as well? No, I should not go reading things that weren't there. "Ah—to begin with, what exactly are draugr?"

"They're guardians of ancient Nord tombs," she replied. "Once they were the living servants of powerful, corrupt priests, sacrificed and made undead with necromancy when their masters died so they could go on serving them. Now they're animate corpses which patrol the crypts, attacking any intruders. Very persistent and sometimes very powerful—they have all the skills the body possessed when it was alive. Luckily they go up like tinder—shoot fire at them or hit them a few times with a torch, and they're done for."

"Necromancy is bad, I agree with that, and these draugr sound unpleasant, but I've encountered as bad, or worse. Do you ever get people who are possessed? While they're still alive, that is? Mages who make bargains with demons and change into monsters?" How different was this place from my home?

"Change into monsters? No—well, there are werewolves, but I never heard that they had to be mages. I never heard of daedra just taking over someone. I don't think they could. Is that something that happens where you come from?"

"Incessantly," I said grimly. "But I don't want to talk about that. So, is that what you do for a living? Kill draugr and necromancers?"

"When necessary," She played with the hem of her cloak, pleating it between her fingers. "I have never killed anyone or anything that wasn't out to kill me. What do I do for a living, exactly? I suppose 'adventurer' comes as close as anything can. I haven't been an adventurer for very long. Up until a few months ago, I was working as a potter for a kiln in High Rock. Those cups we drank our kahve from came from there."

High Rock was another country, I remembered. "Really? That's—Somehow I don't see you doing that. You seem more suited to adventuring."

"I am, more's the pity. I did enjoy being a potter. I chose to become one because it would be a very quiet life, and I wanted peace. For a few years, I got it." She turned and looked out over an icy vista.

"What happened?" I asked.

"What happened that I wanted peace so badly, or what happened to cause me to become an adventurer after all?" She turned back to meet my eyes.

"Either. Both."

"I…am not quite ready to confide that much yet. Ask again me in a while."

"As my lady commands," I joked. No! I couldn't do that! "Then, who were Uthgerd and Livia?"

"Livia? You mean Lydia?" Erkya's brows quirked together. "How—oh, Seren must have told you. Lydia was my housecarl. Do you have those? It means she was my personal guard, at home and out and about. She and I didn't get along from the start, but the Jarl of Whiterun assigned her to me. I think she envisioned serving some noble knight in his castle, not a nobody in a small house.

"It got to the point where I paid her off and released her from my service. The last I heard she was headed to Cyrodill. I don't like traveling alone—it's not good for me to be alone too much—so after Uthgerd and I got into a brawl and she decided we were friends, I traveled with her for a while. It didn't last. I tried traveling with a few others, mercenaries I met in taverns, but it's never worked out. Not so far, anyway."

"At least you had the choice to walk away," I said, remembering some of the Grey Wardens whose company I'd had to endure. "Seren said something else. She said—more implied, to be honest—that you were 'Dragonborn'. What does that mean?"

"That's a long story, and it encompasses why I've become an adventurer." She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, since as soon as we reach Whiterun, half the guards will be addressing me as 'Dragonborn', I may as well tell you."

TBC…

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Thank you to my lovely reviewers, especially Lisa. Reviews are so inspirational! Virtual chocolate chip cookies for everyone!


	5. Ye Gods!

**_To Commander Meredith: This scrap was found underneath a rock by the Alienage tree. We believe it to be a piece of the same document found in the tenement._**

The third concern is money. Your coins won't be any good here. First, Skyrim is so rich that they don't use copper or silver coins; money is gold or nothing at all, although the concept of the bank note is starting to catch on. Their coins are called septims. Although slightly smaller in size than our sovereigns, their gold content is higher, so don't try and pass sovereigns off on anybody. The happiest outcome will be a stint in jail, and the unhappiest involves your belly being slit open.

Don't worry about how you will live, because although it is very easy to freeze to death in Skyrim, it is very difficult to starve. For one thing, wild game jumps out at you everywhere in the forests. For another, there is a terrible labor shortage here, especially in the countryside, partly due to the war and partly because a mystifyingly large number of people decide to run off and become bandits. Maybe they just hate comfortable beds, fresh food, and clean clothing; I don't know. If you can sew, chop wood, harvest crops, mine for ore, fish, hunt, gather alchemy ingredients, tend sheep, mind small children or any other sort of work along those lines, you will earn a decent living. Your greatest asset is yourself.

That having been said, the more skilled trades will be harder to get back into. Alchemists will have to start over almost from the very beginning. All the ingredients are different here, but your basic skills will carry over. Smiths will have to learn to work some vastly different materials, and mages would do well to head straight to the College of Winterhold for training. Room, board, and basic lectures are free; private lessons are available, but they can be costly. It's rather like the Circle, only without Templars and with the freedom to leave whenever you wish. The Archmage (me) will keep you busy with special assignments and field trips to build up your experience.

Finally, if your profession requires calipers, make sure you bring them along! In fact, bring a spare pair or two. Calipers cannot be found anywhere on the continent for either love or money.

Moving along, the next topic is religion. If you are Elven and worship the Nine, you will have little or no problem adjusting. In Skyrim, humans and elves both worship and honor the Nine (or the Eight, depending on their beliefs), only under different names and different aspects. There are many shrines in both the wilderness and the cities where you may receive the blessing of a deity and through them, be cured of disease as needed. The Forgotten Ones also exist here, however, and worshipping _them_ is frowned on.

If you're a devout Chantry-goer, and I don't know why you'd want to come here if you are, I would suggest seriously reconsidering your decision to do so. _Please_ don't come here with the thought of converting the poor benighted heathens and heretics. Here you'll be the heretics, and people here feel just as strongly about their gods as you do about the Maker. There are many reasons you won't be able to convince the locals that they should believe in an unseen, unheard from, sulking-in-a-corner god…

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A/N: This was originally a much, much longer chapter, but one about which I had some serious but vague misgivings. I went ahead and posted it anyway. Lisa, whom I thank very much, gave voice to these misgivings for me in a review, so I'm going to go back and work on that part some more. I will post that as the next chapter soon.


	6. Time out of Mind

"This takes a fair amount of explaining, but I'll try not to bore you. Dragons have been gone from the world since time out of mind," Eryka began, "but when they last flew the skies, there were no more powerful creatures on the face of all Nirn. (I gathered from the context that 'Nirn' meant the world, and didn't interrupt.)

"Humans were then the least of all the races. The elves and the other races of mer had much more magic, the Argonians had tough scaly hides and could breathe underwater, the Khajiit and other cat races had claws, speed and agility, but humans were soft, bare-skinned, and powerless. None could stand against a dragon in its strength, its magic or its rage, not men nor elves nor any of the other races, and no one but a dragon could kill another dragon, not so it would stay dead. Even if it were it to be killed, its wings slashed, its body rotted until nothing but the bones were left, all it would take was for another dragon to speak its name over the bones, and it would rise up again in all its power and majesty. Our ancestors of long ago worshipped them as gods, and is it any wonder?

"The dragons, being dragons, which is to say, proud, conceited, combative, quarrelsome, distrustful, greedy and possessive, accepted the worship and devotion of these humans, who willingly became their slaves. In return, the humans were protected from the other races, from other tribes of humans, and from other dragons, for a dragon will willingly yield nothing. Some of the humans were also given power over the others, and they became powerful priests and necromancers—the same ones who made the draugr what they are, in fact. They also became the rulers over their fellow men, for dragons could not be bothered to do the ruling. All might have continued in that way, except that Atmora, where once we lived, started to change from a green and fruitful land to one that was even colder and harsher than the Pale."

"Even worse than _this_?" I interjected, waving a hand around at the landscape, which continued to be covered entirely in snow and ice, and rocks.

"Even worse," she confirmed. "So bad that everyone abandoned it, which took some centuries. It didn't happen all at once. Dragons, dragon priests, and dragon worshippers all came to Tamriel and settled in Skyrim, the hard-won human bastion lands. But once here, the priests began to abuse their power greatly. "

"Hold on a moment," I put up a hand. "You're speaking of dragons as though they were intelligent."

"Yes," she nodded. "They were very intelligent. They had their own tongue, their own histories and they were the children of Akatosh, greatest of the gods. Certain words in the Dragon tongue, when Shouted properly, are a very powerful magic. That's how they breathe fire or frost and call the storms.

"I have to say, though, that the ones I've fought don't seem to be all that bright. They don't want to talk to me at all, and I_ have_ tried. In their own speech, too. I don't _want_ to have to kill them, and it isn't as if there wasn't enough land and wild game to go around. If they'd only leave people and their livestock alone—. "

"You've tried reasoning dragons out of attacking?" I felt my face stretching into an involuntary grin. "Maker's breath, I would like to see that!"

"If you continue on with me, you will," she predicted dolefully. "I do a lot of ducking and dodging."

"Ah. Well, the reason I asked about draconic intelligence is, where I come from, dragons are merely beasts. Huge, flying, fire-breathing, and tough-to-kill beasts, I admit, but just great big lizards when all is said and done. I should know. I've helped kill them, and one of them was risen from the dead so it was twice as hard to kill again. Now, I have heard about a place where they worshipped them, but that was rare. Anyhow, that cult is gone. The only exception is when an Arch-Demon—something like one of your Daedric Princes—arises in the form of a dragon. It takes a member of the Grey Wardens—they're a special order of warriors—to kill one so it stays dead, and it costs him his life. Or it's supposed to, anyhow."

Somehow, both Alistair Theirin and Elissa Cousland had come through the Blight alive and stayed Grey Wardens. Elissa had also very cleverly managed to marry her widower brother to Queen Anora rather than making her lover king, so my money was on her having found a way to circumvent the sacrifice.

"Something like that did happen here about two hundred years ago," Eryka said. "The Daedric Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, tried to open all the gates of Oblivion and destroy the world, but the last of the Septim line died to seal them shut forever. That's a whole story in itself, though."

"Right. So these Dragon Priests were abusing their power and, I'm guessing, their people too. That's usually how it goes. In my experience, anyway." I commented cynically.

"Yes. They were so tyrannical that the people rose up in rebellion. Up until then, the dragons took hardly any more notice of people than you would of ants. That is, none at all, until you find them infesting your food stores or something. But one of the things the dragons demanded was all the gold and jewels that humans could produce. When the tribute stopped and humans started squawking and waving spears, the dragons started flaming them. At first men died by the thousands, but then a few of the dragons and some of the gods started helping them. What gods do _you_ worship?"

"_I_ don't worship any god," I said, rubbing my forehead. "But we only have the one."

"Oh!" Her face lit up with comprehension. "And you call him what, the All-Maker? You said 'Maker's Breath' a little while ago."

"Uh—we do call him the Maker, yes…"

"Then Fereldan must be somewhere in or near Solstheim. Your people must be Nords from the Skaal tribe. They're the only ones I've ever heard of or read about where they have only one god. I always wondered how one god could be all things to all people, particularly when it's a_ male_ god. But then, that's the Skaals for you, even more manly than the Nords of Skyrim. So little respect for women they don't even allow a Goddess in Heaven."

"I'm almost certain it's a coincidence." I said. Well, I certainly hoped it was a coincidence. There was no 'almost' about that. "Anyhow, we do allow women in Heaven._ A_ woman, anyhow. The Maker's Bride, Andraste."

"Never heard of her." Eryka frowned and dismissed the saint with a wave of her hand. "Well, whether it is a coincidence or it isn't, I suspected you couldn't be from anywhere the Nine are worshipped, because the priests of Julianos would never permit mages to be so treated. He's the Divine of scholarship and wisdom, so students and practitioners of magic come under his protection."

"You even have a god of mages here? Careful how you tread, Desire Demon. This is getting too good to be true again." I teased. I couldn't help it, for all I knew I shouldn't. I was—almost—happy, and it had to come out somehow.

She made a scoffing sound. "Tscha! _You_ be careful, or I'll Shout you out of this carriage. Anyhow, for whatever reason of their own, the dragons and gods taught men to use Shouts in the Dragon tongue as the dragons do. Speaking Dragon takes a lot of study if you're not a dragon, and Shouting—when you Shout, you have to know and understand to the point where the word you Shout is the thing itself. It's known as the Way of the Voice. That was what made the difference. Men couldn't fly and they were still much smaller and more vulnerable, but they could and did made weapons and armor. Add to that the Shout, and they began killing the dragons. It was a long and bloody war."

"But they did not stay dead." I prompted, "because another dragon could speak their names over their bones and bring them back." This all seemed like some old story or fairy tale, with no relation to the world or the land I was now in.

"Yes. But not all dragons had that kind of power, and even among those that did, dragons are so selfish and conceited that they did not bother. Only Alduin, the Firstborn of all dragonkind, was foresighted enough to resurrect all the others, so the humans concentrated their attack upon him. Once he was gone, the dragons scattered and fled to the remote places of the world. Except now they are returning in force, and no one knows why."

She shook her head, then looked at me. "Some of this I knew from our histories and some I have learned from the last remaining keepers of the Way of the Voice, the Greybeards up on High Hrothgar. They won't tell me more until I return to them with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, which was what I went into that tomb of draugr and necromancers to get. Somebody who knows a suspicious whacking lot about me got there before I did and left me a note!"

That last statement was very nearly a wail of frustration. I had to laugh. "Sorry. You just sounded so—. Anyhow, I can see how that would be anticlimactic. I still don't see where you come into all of this. Why does it have to be you? Surely there are other intrepid would-be dragon-slayers out there."

"There are," she agreed, "and I've come across the bodies of a few of them, burned to a crisp or frozen solid and sometimes both. I've come across carriages and homes which were attacked and destroyed when I wasn't on hand. I'm the only Dragonborn—at least the only one that's known about. Only a dragon can kill another dragon, but the gods have seen fit to get around by making me. I'm human, mostly. I've a mortal body and a human mind and a human heart, but my soul is that of a dragon. It's always been that way, and I've always known it deep down, even if I didn't know the words for it. I know how to Shout without being taught for years. I can speak Dragon without learning it. _I_ can kill a dragon and it will stay dead."

"That's—I—." I was still sorting out my response when the carriage was attacked by several frostbite spiders. Eryka and I killed them, although my offensive spells still weren't working right and I had to resort to, yes, clubbing them with my staff as I did the bear. At least with a spider it's easier to crack the carapace, although bears don't spit venom on you.

After we caught up with the carriage again and helped push it back up to the road (the horse had panicked), and got underway once more, Eryka asked me what I had been trying to cast, observing that it didn't look to her as though I had the finger positions right. The rest of the way to Morthal, the next Hold capital, was taken up with an impromptu lesson in how magic worked in this world, and by the time we got there, I could again cast firebolts with the best of them.

* * *

A/N: I am much happier with this chapter(Thank you, Lisa!) than I was with the original explanation, even if this doesn't cover nearly as much about the history of Nirn and the pantheon of its gods. Those will be showing up in the next few chapters.

A tremendous thank you to all who reviewed. I will be thanking members via PM, but an especial thanks to: Lisa, Ceg and Shakatan. And Lisa, who deserves it twice.


	7. Morthal

ATTENTION, CITIZENS OF KIRKWALL:

A fraudulent and blasphemous document is known to be circulating around the city touting the advantages of emigrating to a mythical land called 'Skyrim'. This document is deliberately crafted to appeal to the vulnerable, the desperate, and the apostates amongst our midst.

IT IS NOT TRUE! THERE IS NO "SKYRIM"!

The Templar Order has investigated this document on behalf of the Chantry and has determined that is the work of Tevinter Slavers who prey upon those who believe in it and sell the credulous into slavery!

ONE SOVEREIGN OFFERED FOR EACH INTACT COPY OF THE DOCUMENT! FIFTY SOVEREIGNS OFFERED FOR THE LOCATION OF THE PRINTER! ONE HUNDRED SOVEREIGNS OFFERED FOR THE NAME OF THE WRITER AND FIVE HUNDRED FOR HIS WHEREABOUTS!

—Posted by order of Knight-Cmdr. Meredith Stannard.

* * *

"Hjaalmarch is the poorest of all the nine Holds," Eryka commented as the carriage journeyed through the deep woods. It had started to snow, and the wind had picked up. There was a stark beauty to the landscape, but it was something better appreciated through a window while sitting in a chair by a warm fireside. "Poorer even than Winterhold, but then Hjaalmarch hasn't got the Mages' College. It's small and it has only the one mine. The soil is sandy, it's mostly marsh and swampland, and the water is brackish everywhere you go, so not much can be grown here. It's great if you're an alchemist, though. Lots of valuable plants like to grow where their feet are wet all the time."

"I'm sorry—did you say 'Hjaalmarch', or 'Hjaal_marsh_'?" I quipped. "Where are we in the year, by the way? I would think it was the depths of winter by what I've seen of Skyrim so far, but our driver said that Whiterun wouldn't get the deep snows for another month."

"It's Sun's Dusk."

"I don't know what that means," I shook my head.

"That's the next to last month of the year. It's late autumn. The year starts with Morning Star—." She recited the months for me. There were twelve, just as we had in Thedas. "—and then it ends with Evening Star. You…really don't come from anywhere in Tamriel, do you? "she asked. "Not even from Solstheim. I mean we all use the same names for the months, so since you're not faking it, you can't be from here."

"I don't think I come from anywhere on Nirn," I replied. "I don't know how I got here, but I think Thedas must be a different world entirely. I suppose it's possible it's a continent on the other side of the world, but—no. Skyrim is too much like home, and not enough alike, if that makes sense at all."

Apparently it made some sort of sense to Eryka, although her response made no sense to me. "I wonder if your Maker doesn't like playing conkers."

"Conkers?!" I asked.

"Yes. It's a game you play with dried horse chestnuts. You bore a hole through them and thread them on strings. Then you and somebody play by taking turns smashing them against each other, and the person whose conker doesn't break, wins. Y'see, our world,_ this_ world, wasn't the first one and it mightn't be the only one."

"And that has something to do with conkers?" I had to ask.

"It does the way _I_ see it. I'm no priest or scholar, but between the reading I've done these past few months_ and_ what they've singled me out for, I've become better acquainted with the gods than most," Eryka said. Not as if she were honored at chosen, or full of herself and her own holiness, but more as if she were speaking of her aunts and uncles—like older family members who insist on hugging you and telling you how much you've grown every time they see you. "Ah, here's the turn-off for Morthal. It's another place that's called a city out of courtesy."

Morthal called for even more courtesy than Dawnstar; unbelievably, it was even smaller. It had this going for it, though. It was set down in a valley, far enough that it was actually warmer. There wasn't much snow on the ground, barely a dusting, and it looked as though it had only just had a severe frost rather than months of cold, harsh weather. Six or seven buildings clustered around the waterside, linked with raised wooden walkways, and like in Dawnstar, they were simple thatched houses, most only one story high. This place wasn't even big enough to boast a blacksmith; the only store I saw was an alchemist's.

"Here ye are. I can wait as long as ye care to have me wait, but every candlemark spent here is a candlemark later that ye'll be getting to Whiterun," our driver informed us.

"Then we'll be here no longer than it takes to use the privy and get a meal to take with us from the inn," Eryka said.

"Then I'll be doing the same," nodded the driver. He stepped down off the box as we slid off the back of the wagon.

"The men's privys will be around the back there," she pointed. "Meet you here?"

I said yes and went off in that direction. Again, I was done first and scuffing snow around a walkway and wondering why my ears were ringing. I was also having a bit of a think.

I did not for a moment believe Eryka truly had a dragon's soul, not literally. She believed it, I could read that on her as easily as I could read a book, but I—didn't know what I believed. Also, I took the bewildering array of gods this world had even less seriously. When it came to not believing in a god, the god I didn't believe in was the Maker, thank you very much.

Yet while I rejected Him, the Chantry and all its teachings, those things had nevertheless left their mark on my mind. I had had it pounded into me that there was only one god and anyone who believed in a pantheon was wrong. Pantheistic religions were no more than collections of nature myths originated by primitive peoples to explain why the sun rose and the seasons changed. Also, their gods tended to behave very badly—all that turning into stallions and eagles and what have you to carry off girls. Although if this religion was sophisticated enough to allow for other worlds... But what about Eryka's soul?

The water glooped at the wooden pilings as I stomped up and down the walkway. No. There was simply no way a human could have a dragon's soul. People did have souls, I was willing to concede that, and I would even go so far as to say that animals had souls. My cat Ser Pounce-a-lot certainly had a soul, I can tell you that. But he had a cat soul because he was a cat, just as I had a human soul because I was human.

If some other sort of soul had been put into a human body, either the soul would change to fit the body, or else the person would turn into an abomination. A human with a dragon's soul would be a monster, not a warm-hearted young woman who would go out of her way to get a present for a friend to give to his pregnant wife. Yes, I was aware of a certain hypocrisy inherent in my thinking, as I was currently hosting an extra spirit myself. Fortunately I was both wise enough and considerate enough not to argue with Eryka about it.

_I/we need her, at least for the time being_. There was Justice getting his two coppers in...

Was he somehow responsible for the ringing in my ears? I could almost swear as to the direction it was coming from. Sticking the tip of my little finger in my ear, I wriggled it as if I could dislodge the sound that way.

"Something wrong?" Eryka joined me on the walkway.

"My ears are ringing, and it's maddening."

"Wrong. It's maddening, right enough, but it's not your ears," Parting the reeds and grasses at the water's edge, here and there, she gave a little 'Ha!' of satisfaction. "Look at this pretty thing!" she said.

I looked at...a plant with toothy, greenish-white leaves. Sure enough, it was emitting that high-pitched ringing sound. "What is that, and how can a plant be making a noise?"

"It's called nirnroot, and nobody knows how it makes that sound. Look at this, too," She cupped her hands around it, blocking out the light, and I could see the plant itself glowing.

"Amazing." I commented. "I've never known a plant to do that. Fireflies, but not plants."

"It's one of those valuable plants I was telling you about," she said, reaching down to grasp it by the base of its stems and wrenching it from the ground with a practiced twist. "There's a rich girl in Riften who'll pay plenty of coin for this root. Luckily it stops making that sound once it's picked, because otherwise it would be fit to drive a body mad."

Eryka stowed the plant away in a small satchel, then looked to me. "I'm going to go and see about getting us something to eat. Where there's one nirnroot about, there's often more. Would you mind having a look around for them? Ooh, and that blue-violet flower there, that's deathbell. Pick all the flowers of _those_ you can find, and you can have whatever she pays."

"That's a small enough favor to ask," I said, accepting the satchel.

"Oh," she called back as she headed to the inn, "Whatever you do, _don't_ touch your eyes or put your fingers in your mouth after handling those, not until you've had a good wash-up first!"

"When a flower's got a name like deathbell, that doesn't surprise me!" That was another reason I was sure Eryka could not have a dragon's soul. She was sensible. Anyone so afflicted would surely be half off their head. Surely. I picked deathbells. They had a milky, sticky sap which oozed out when I broke the flowerheads off. That stirred a memory…someone once had told me that plants with milky sap were likely to be poisonous to some degree or other. It must have been my mother. The mind scabs over some memories, while others bleach out with time, like a banner faded by the sun.

I picked all the flowers I could conveniently reach, then squatted by the waterside to wash my hands, using a handful of rough grass to scour away any traces of sap. As I did, the hackles of my neck prickled. Someone was watching me…I raised my head to look directly into the eyes of a young boy.

"You're not from anywhere around here, are you?" he asked. By the look of his clothes, he came from a well-to-do family. I could hardly make out his face between the hat on his head and the thick scarf he wore wrapped around his neck.

"Ah—no. I'm from—Solstheim." I said.

"No, you're not. You're just saying that because otherwise you're afraid you'll sound mad," he told me. "It's okay. I know all about that. You got lost just like I get lost sometimes. When I get lost, I don't know where I go, but it's not here."

"That's—very interesting," I said, getting to my feet. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I'm Joric. The Jarl is my mother."

At that moment, a woman called "Joric? Joric, where are you?"

"Is that her?" I asked, not sure what to make of the boy or our encounter.

"No, that's my sister." he said.

She sprinted over to us and swooped down to wrap her arms around him. "How many times have I told you not to bother people like that? Particularly not strangers. I'm sorry. You mustn't mind Joric," she apologized to me. At close quarters, I still would have said she was more likely to be his mother than his sister, for she was about twenty years older than he was. A pretty woman, but brittle-looking.

"Stop smothering me!"Joric complained from the folds of her cloak. "He's here with the girl who's a dragon on the inside…"

"You mustn't say things like that about people!" she chided him. "Now come on in before you catch your death of cold."

She led him off, and I stood there looking after them until Eryka approached from the other direction holding a couple of cones of paper which steamed in the cold air. "Sorry I took so long. The inn is full of miners for whom the night before is just now turning into the morning after. Here you are. Chicken dumplings—did you wash first?"

"Yes, Mother, and cleaned out under my fingernails as well," I teased her, holding my hands up for her inspection.

"Very good. You've nice hands, you know. Most men in Skyrim might as well be wearing a pair of crusty old pair of gloves all the time, their hands are so hard and calloused."

"I wouldn't mind a pair of gloves, actually, crusty and old or not. It's still cold out here." I commented. With another woman, that comment of hers might have been the prelude to, 'Run them all over me right now, you madly sexy apostate, and don't forget that trick you do with electricity', but Eryka just seemed to be making an observation. Besides, she was wearing full armor.

"It's warmer in Whiterun and there are stores there. Oh, here." She passed me a paper cone filled with what we called 'pouchies' at home in Anderfels. In Fereldan they were 'pasties', and I never learned what they would have been called in Kirkwall. "There's a bottle of hard cider for you as well, but you'll have to get it out of the crook of my arm here. I just haven't got enough hands." She turned so I could work the drink out from between her arm and her body, and then we started back for the carriage.

"That boy Joric," I began as the driver clucked the horse into a walk and we headed up to the main road once more, "the Jarl's son…"

"Yes. What about him? He is harmless, if that's what's troubling you." Eryka took a 'dumpling' from her cone and bit into it.

"He saw that I wasn't from here. He even saw through my lie." I followed suit and tried a dumpling myself. Not bad—chopped chicken, onion, carrots, and some gravy in a pastry shell.

"The family has certain gifts," Eryka said. "Visions, visits from spirits. It's just another form of Magicka. There's no necromancy or blood magic involved. The boy—he was a late-life child. You know what that can mean."

I did. Sometimes they were born naturally Tranquil, lacking in wits or with oddly similar, distorted faces. But the boy had looked normal enough, and spoke clearly. He had also said Eryka was a dragon on the inside. I couldn't start quizzing her on the state of her soul, though. That would just be too…too..Templar-like. But I could ask about something else.

"About these gods of yours..."

"Yes?" She broke the seal on her bottle of cider and took a swig.

"How do they work?" I asked, taking a glance around the landscape and sky to make sure I wasn't about to be smited. More snow, more rocks, more trees, no angry gods. Good.

"How do they _work_?" she snorted. "They can't touch the world directly, not anymore, so they pick somebody and make their life difficult until that somebody gets up and makes everything turn out the way they want. _That's_ how they work."

I took a swig of my own cider. It was just alcoholic enough to keep it from going bad, and slightly tart. Tasty. "I was thinking more about how they put the world together. Where _does _conkers enter into it?"

TBC…

* * *

Thanks to all my reviewers, especially Lisa and Ceg. Ceg, I didn't know all that about the Skaal, and thanks. I think I will chalk it up to my Dragonborn's ignorance. (rather than mine!)


	8. Divide and Conker

"No," Eryka decided, shaking her head. "I want to eat my dumplings while they're still warm, or before they freeze solid, anyway. Besides, I've been the one doing most of the talking. How does _your_ god work?"

"He doesn't," I replied. "Not for a very long time, anyhow, but that's not much of an explanation. Hmm. Mind you, I can't vouch for how true this is, but this is what I was taught… The Maker began by creating the Fade and populating it with spirits of various kinds, but since all they could do was copy what he made and sing his praises, he got bored with them. Then he created the world and its people, making them more imaginative. He also made them mortal, but since they also had immortal souls, he created the Golden City within the Fade to house them after they died. However, when he made a barrier between the original world and the new world, he didn't make a very good one. That's why we call it the Veil, not the Solid Brick Wall."

Eryka smiled appreciatively, and I went on. "The spirits from the Fade could see, hear and communicate with our world. Some of them grew jealous because, let's face it, our world was better than the Fade and the Maker found us more entertaining. They incited some people from our world, the Theodosian Magisters of Tevinter in ancient times, to worship the Old Gods. There were seven Old Gods then, and nobody seems to know exactly where they came from, or whether they existed before or after the Maker came into existence. The Chantry says they were false gods, and that the Maker imprisoned them in the earth as punishment for stealing his worshippers. The Old Gods didn't like being stuck in the earth, so they kept working at the Magisters to get them out."

"That can't have ended well," Eryka commented.

"It didn't. They taught the Magisters enough magic to storm the Golden City and challenge the Maker. Yet the very act of the Magisters setting foot in the City ruined the City, pissed off the Maker, changed the Magisters into twisted demonic wretches we call darkspawn, horrible creatures that live for nothing but to destroy and kill. They set off the first Blight when they dug up an Old God. The Old Gods turn into Archdemons in the form of dragons when they're dug up again, you see. When an Archdemon emerges, the land itself is cursed and tainted. Nothing lives there ever again."

"Wait a moment," Eryka said. "I remember…we had a Blight once in Morrowind. It was a very long time ago. Ash storms used to come off the Red Mountain, and if you got caught in one and breathed the ash, you got the Blight. It sometimes made people and animals attack each other, no matter how peaceful they were, and where it was worst, hardly anything grows even now. What does live there is…well, I've heard the plants and animals both have gone all funny."

"As I said before, this world is so much like the one I come from, it's like seeing it in a mirror. It looks the same at first glance, but when you try to read the details, it's all backward. So, where was I? Yes, the Magisters invaded and destroyed the Golden City, and so the Maker turned his face from all of us in anger. That was many ages ago, and since then, he's only stirred once, for Saint Andraste."

"Your god is definitely the kind of god who would take his toys and go home," Eryka said, wiping her fingers on the paper cone before wadding it up into a ball. "He sounds like a miserable excuse for a deity. I mean, when Azura—she's the Lady of Dawn and Dusk—got mad at the Dunmer for oathbreaking, she may have turned the whole clan grey, but she didn't turn her _back_ on them."

"I fear it will take me some time to learn the names of all your gods and what they're in charge of," I said.

"I've got books back at home. I told you, I've been reading up on them of late. Anyhow, I guess it's my turn to talk about how the gods played conker." Leaning back against the carriage's wooden seat, she laced her fingers together, looked up toward the sky, and began.

"Once, long ago, there was not one world but many, so many that each god had a world of their own to shape as they liked. Not just the part we live on, but the sun, the moons, and the stars as well. They made the lands and the seas, filled them up with life, and finished by making creatures to worship them, creatures that could think and know themselves, each with their own tongues and ways—and powers. Akatosh filled his world with dragons, beginning with his Firstborn, Alduin, and the other gods filled their worlds with their own creations, including humans and elves and all the other races.

"Some of those gods were the Aedra, gods of order, and some of them were Daedra, gods of chaos. Now not all the gods of order were good, exactly. Cemeteries are orderly places, but you wouldn't want to live there. Not all the gods of chaos were evil, either. A litter of puppies is chaotic, but not evil.

"When they were done, they wanted to show the others what they had made and boast about how theirs was the best, but they fell to squabbling and the next thing you know, they were playing conkers with their worlds, only everybody lost. All their lovely worlds were destroyed, and nobody had anything left to play with."

"You make the gods sound like a bunch of huge unruly children," I observed, smiling in appreciation.

"That's on purpose. So with everybody sulking, the god Shor had this idea." Eryka sat forward and fixed her eyes on me, delivering her story with a dimpled smile.

"'What if we scrape together all the bits that are big enough and make a new world that will belong to everybody?' –Kind of like when you make stew by scraping all the leftovers for the week into one pot, add water and salt, then hope it won't taste_ too_ bad when it's done… Well, the gods were all so bored, they went along with it. It took a lot of their power to get the new world stuck together so it would stay, so broken were the pieces. It took so much power that Shor died and the others were greatly diminished.

"This new world was a mess, with countries from all the worlds wedged in against each other, and all the peoples of those worlds were frightened by what had happened. It seemed to them a cataclysm of an instant, but now the lands they had known all their lives were gone, and in their places, strange new ones full of even stranger people. Some of these people were feathered and some were furry and others were nearly naked. Some of them were dragons. After the first shock wore off, they pretty much all hated each other, and many still do today. And that is how Nirn came to be. Put together any which way by a, a—what's the word? A _committee_ of oversized children out of all the leftover bits."

I grinned at the landscape, which was sharply inclining toward the vertical. We were climbing a mountain—how could a horse ever pull a carriage up a slope like this? "Is this the established theology of Skyrim?"

"No, this is just my summing matters up as I see them. But believe me, the more I see of Nirn and the more I learn about the gods, the more I'm convinced that I'm more right than a lot of scholars and philosophers out there." Eryka replied.

"And so you're thinking that the Maker, _our_ Maker from my world, is the child who took his conkers and went home because the other children were picking on him?" I asked.

"There's always one in every group, isn't there?" she countered. "Anyhow, that's how he's been acting, hasn't he?"

"I think," I said, feeling my face stretch out in an even bigger grin which could no more be stopped than the tides, "I think… that's the best thing I've ever heard in my_ life_."

I laughed as I hadn't in a year or more, I simply couldn't help it. Laughter, like yawning, is contagious, so Eryka began laughing with me, and that made it even better. How can I explain what a knot that untied in me? Laughter, true laughter, sends light into dark places. My dark places had been darker by far than the Deep Roads, but no longer. Let's say they were…half a shade lighter. It was a start.

* * *

A/N: This was not an auspicious week for writing or replying. However, I want to thank Ceg especially. The lore gets so_ complicated_. And now we're going to get to see Solstheim in the Dragonborn DLC, yay! Yeah, that's Ingun Black-Briar she's referring to. Wouldn't you like to see her start her poisoning spree with her immediate family?


	9. Labyrinthian

Fragment retrieved from storm drain in Darktown:

… hazards to living in Skyrim, and I would be remiss if I did not warn you about them. Other than passive dangers such as the climate and the terrain, there are a lot of things out there which will be actively trying to kill you. As many of these creatures are quite valuable for their meat, pelts, and various other parts, this will save you some time, provided you kill them and not the other way around.

First, the wildlife. In addition to the usual giant rats, wolves, both singly and in packs, bears, wild boars, enormous wildcats and huge venomous spiders, Skyrim also has some creatures unique to it. There are mudcrabs, more of a nuisance than a danger unless you are swarmed while swimming, slaughterfish, which (I am not making this up, I swear) can and will crawl out on land for short distances to get to you, and chaurus, giant insects that look like earwigs. They're very poisonous and very dangerous, but they prefer to stay underground most of the time. Horkers, sea creatures that loll around on the beaches, are not aggressive unless threatened.

During the winter, and year-round in the permanently frozen regions, there are Ice Wraiths, Elemental spirits which manifest as something like icy, flying snakes with vicious teeth. In the warmer months, you may encounter spriggans, which are Elemental spirits of the forest. They look like a cross between a person and a tree, and are willing to leave you alone if you do the same, but they can also command forest creatures to attack you too. Trolls may be familiar to you from stories. Here they are not just stories…

_Notes: This fragment seems to be not just part of the same document, but the same print run and perhaps even the same pamphlet itself. The paper is not cheap pulp but high-cotton rag, and the ink is iron-oak gall rather than soot. There is a wealthy backer behind this fraud_.

* * *

"I've been thinking," Eryka said. "Nothing's decided yet, but there _is_ something you could do other than tagging around after me. I wish I'd thought of it before. Back in Dawnstar, their alchemist, Frida, is getting on in years—_really_ getting on in them. Her husband was called to Sovngarde a while back, and they outlived their children, or so I understand."

"'Called to Sovngarde'?" I asked. "Do you mean he passed away?"

"Yes, and I don't know of there being any grandchildren. You're a clever man, you're a healer, and you're right personable, especially when you smile. If you had five hundred to invest in the shop, and another hundred to be getting on with, it'd be like buying an apprenticeship. You'd pick up the trade in no time, I'm sure. Rustleif and Seren would vouch for you, and when I come by, as I do every so often, I'd stop in and see how you were doing. If you're good to Frida, then when she's called to Sovngarde herself, you'd step right into her shoes, like as not, and own the shop." Eryka darted a glance at me. "I'd loan you the money."

"That's, um, very generous of you. Is this your way of saying you don't want to travel with me?" I asked, while Justice was howling, _No. NO! Secure her help! Win her!_ Which was easy for _him _to think, because _I_ was the one who would have to do it. In truth, her suggestion stung, because I thought we had been getting along rather well. Also, I admit, I liked her already. She was intelligent and attractive and kind, she had a good sense of humor—what was there not to like? Other than her delusions concerning gods and dragons, that is.

"No," she denied, looking surprised. "It's a ways yet until Whiterun, and if I do decide against you, I'll come right out and say so. I won't be lending you any money, either, if that's the case. I just wanted you to know you had a choice in the matter too."

"Oh. Thank you. What is this place?" I asked, turning around in my seat to take in all of the area. Stone pillars and arches thrust up from the ground like the darkened bones of some tremendous beast, and we rode through its remains like beetles scuttling for cover. I could not know it then, but this was merely my first glance at a place which would later prove to be of the utmost significance.

"Labyrinthian," Eryka replied. "It's one of the tombs from the days of the Dragon Priests—well, partly, anyhow. Some of it was built rather later. Now it's just a way through the mountains. The caravans go through here from Rain's Hand through Hearthfire, weather permitting."

Those were the months from spring to mid-autumn, if I remembered correctly. "An old tomb? Any chance of encountering Draugr?" I looked around more carefully, seeing a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye.

"Here? No, you don't often find Draugr outside the tombs. They don't do well when exposed to the elements. Their flesh falls away to dust, and they're reduced to skeletons. It's very easy to kill something when it's nothing but bones—although I have a nasty scar on my calf when one I thought was dead twisted around and bit me."

"Ouch," I winced in sympathy. "Is there anything here now that would pose a threat? I ask because I thought I saw something moving—and the birds have gone very quiet and still."

Eryka tensed up, looked around. "So they have," she agreed, casting a spell with her left hand while she scrutinized the landscape. I immediately wanted to quiz her on what it was and how to cast it, as I still knew little of Skyrim magic, but if there was something out there, now was not the time.

"There are at least two large and hostile creat—," she began but stopped abruptly when she looked at me. The glow in her hand died away.

"What's wrong?" I asked, looking down at myself.

"You look like a thunderstorm happening all at once, when I cast Detect Life," she said to me, very softly before she raised her voice. "Stop the carriage!"

"What?" the driver asked. "Ye want to get down here?"

"There's something hiding in the ruins, something deadly," she told him. "Stop the carriage and get down under it."

"Damn!" he said, but he moved, halting the horse and crouching down under the vehicle.

We, in the meantime, slipped down off the back of the carriage and assumed defensive positions.

"What is it?" I asked, gripping a staff that was useless for casting magic. "More spiders? Ice bears?"

"Bigger than spiders. As big as a bear, or bigger, which might mean sabercats or it might mean trolls," she looked to me, drawing a sword from her pack on the carriage. "If it is trolls, use fire. If it's cats, use anything you can."

"Not a problem. The only spell I can cast very well, other than Healing, is Fireballs."

As I said that, I heard a tremendous roar, "HHHRAUUUGH!", and something heavy hit us, knocking us down on the icy cobbles. I gaped for a moment, because the thing that hit us was the corpse of someone with tusks, and then there was no more time for surprise or shock, because two frost trolls swooped down and did their best to pound us into red paste on the ice.

Large, white, ape-like, and smelling like rutting polecats mixed with rotten eggs, frost trolls were impressive foes, but I had fought bigger and smellier creatures. Namely, ogres, but the fighting styles of the two were too different to truly compare them. Ogres did their best to butt like rams and trample you underfoot, while trolls tried to unscrew your head, or failing that, bite it off.

I whacked the nearest troll in the groin with my staff (I have yet to find a male animal which isn't daunted by that, at least for a moment.) before sending a fireball into its midsection. Scrambling to my feet, I saw Eryka slashing at the legs of her troll with her sword, which left flaming wounds in its flesh. But my troll was on me again, and I slammed it with another fireball.

"YOL!" That was Eryka shouting, or rather, Shouting. The Word shook the world and fire bloomed forth from her lips. I only caught a glimpse of engulfing flames, but I saw and heard what it did to her troll. It screamed as two of its three eyes (three eyes? Yes, three.) cooked in its head, the lids sloughing away like dead leaves. The uppermost eye was better protected by the bone socketing it, and it opened again to glare upon her with a look of purest rage.

But my troll was not dead either, and it came in swinging with hands like shovels. Reaching for my head, it got tangled in the tent-cloak. I slipped out and down, leaving the empty garment in its claws, and tossed another fireball at it.

Meanwhile, Eryka Shouted again, "SU!", and began hacking and slashing away at her troll as though she had five more arms and five more swords. Everywhere her blade scored, she left flaming trails of blood bubbling forth from its veins.

One more fireball, and my troll was cooked. Eryka finished hers off with a thrust through the chest, but as she bent to yank her sword free, a third troll leapt down between us and swatted her like a kitten with a wad of paper. She skidded over the icy cobbles to impact against a stone pillar, smacked against it with a rattle of armor and a meaty 'thwack'.

I don't believe either I or Justice actually thought anything other than simply '_No!_' Lose the one person with whom I had a connection here in this world? Lose the chance of bringing mages into a safer, friendlier world?_** No**_. Justice reared up and together we shaped that rage and fear into a spear of fire, drew back, and plunged it through the torso of the beast. The hiss of its innards cooking, the stench, the fluids that boiled up and out of its mouth!

I didn't simply kill the troll. It was half incinerated.

"Are you all right?" I asked Eryka, hurrying over. "Do you need healing?"

"I'm fine," she said, shaking snow off her hood, which was layered over a steel helmet. "This is why I wear such heavy armor. It spreads the force of a blow around." I helped her up.

Her breath hitched as she beheld the troll I had just killed. It was ghastly. "Don't be afraid of me," I tried to project reassurance rather than pleading in my voice. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

"_Afraid_ of you?" she asked, looking as if I'd asked her how she wanted her weasel cooked. "Why would I be afraid of you? That was well done. Look what I just did." She waved at her dead and still smoldering troll. "Are you going to go around being afraid of me?"

"That hadn't occurred to me," I admitted. "At least not yet. So that was Shouting, was it? What would happen if I tried it?"

"Go ahead," she invited me. "'Yol' is Dragon for 'Fire'." That time she simply spoke it rather than Shouted it.

I turned my head away toward the ruins before I tried it. "YOL!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. Nothing happened except that I startled some birds into flight.

"See? Not so simple," Eryka said, recovering her sword.

"I suppose not. Say, why didn't you cast fireballs as you did at the spider earlier? Why rely on the blade?" I asked.

"Because…" she didn't complete the sentence immediately, and I glanced at her face. She mumbled, "Spiders are easy to kill, so I didn't bother with the sword. When I try to use magic and use a blade at the same time, I get mixed up and sometimes cast the wrong spell."

"Eryka, are you _blushing_?"

"Don't tease me! It's embarrassing!"

But I did, until we were halfway down the other side of the mountain.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to my reviewers! I send you virtual snickerdoodles in thanks. Ceg, you raise some fascinating questions and I'm going to have to read up and work out things. As my get-out-of-jail-free card, I can always say that since Akatosh is the god of time, he can put things together in any sequence he likes. He-heh-heh….


	10. A Delicate Issue

_Excerpt from __The Immigrant's Guide__:_

There's no getting around it. Next I must tackle the delicate issue of race in Skyrim. First I want to say that all of these people are _people_. None of them are all good, none entirely evil. Most are fairly honest and decent. They bleed, they sweat, they fart and they cry. Some are dreadful snobs, some are thorough scoundrels, some are selfless healers, and _none_ of these characteristics are pinned to any one race. Everybody just wants to get through their day as best they can and maybe have a drink or two at the end of it. That having been said…

If you are an elf, the good news is, elves in Skyrim are not forced to choose between servitude and poverty in the cities or living secretively in the forests. They are also allowed to own weapons and wield them in self-defense or as the tools of their trade. I have met elves at all levels of society, and yes, some _are_ servants but others are merchants, business owners, mages, courtiers, priests, and even dignitaries. The bad news is, you will not blend in seamlessly among them. The elves here have a harder, bonier appearance and most are rather taller than you. I do not want to dissuade the elves among you from crossing the Bridge—far from it!—but it will be challenging.

Broadly stated, there are three main categories: Human, Elven (also known as Mer) and Other. 'Other' is the simplest to define.

First, there are the Argonians, a race of lizard people. They have tails, scales, cold blood, and can breathe water. Some have feathers where we have hair and others have spikes or horns. They may not be very friendly at first, as their race has a long and troubled history of being enslaved, and they face prejudice from some factions. If a city boasts Argonians among its general population, you can be sure you will be welcome. It is a sign of acceptance and sophistication. Argonians tend to gravitate to trades which work in and around water, for obvious reasons, and are miserable in the cold, which in Skyrim means nine months out of the year in most areas and twelve months out of twelve in the rest of it.

Second, but second to none, as they themselves will tell you, are the Khajiit. Some claim they were once elves who were blessed with exceptional grace, beauty, and speed by the goddess Azura and turned into…large, intelligent cats who go about on two legs. As cats are exceptionally graceful, etcetera, one can hardly argue with that claim! They too have a long and troubled history of enslavement and face even more prejudice than the Argonians. They are not allowed to take up residence in most cities, or even to enter unescorted, but that is beginning to change. Expect them to speak of themselves in the third person; if a Khajiit ever says "I am glad to see you again," rather than "Kharjo is glad to see you again," check to make sure you haven't sprouted a tail and fur, as such intimacy is reserved for family. Most Khajiit are traveling caravaneers, but they make exceptional warriors and _yes_, J'zargo, exceptional mages as well.

Next: Humans. It's really only hard-line Nords who make a great deal out of the different races of humans. Personally, I find it hard to tell the difference, and given that many people now have parents of different races, how do you define the offspring? Can you say that someone came from Cyrodiil or Hammerfell when their parents were born in Skyrim and they've never set foot out of the country? There are Nords, tall, light-skinned, and nigh impervious to cold. Imperials are shorter, darker and prone to being extremely lucky. Then there are Redguards, medium height and quite dark, gifted in all the arts of war, and finally the Bretons. Bretons trace their origins to the time when humans were enslaved by the Ancient High Elves. They were 'Bred-on' or 'Begot-on' slave women by their Elven masters, who sought to add human fertility to their own race, but as the resultant offspring looked more human than elven, they instead created a new race of humans with a greater aptitude for magic.

Most Fereldan humans will blend into the human population seamlessly. I'm from the Anderfels, and everyone takes _me_ for a Nord.

Elves: There are several races of elves, four who you will meet on a regular basis, one which still exists in a degraded form, one which doesn't seem to live anywhere around Skyrim, and one which is entirely extinct. These are the Altmer, or High Elves, taller than many humans, golden skinned, and possessing a great deal of magic. Any High Elf who refers to themselves as 'Thalmor' is going to be a horrible snob who believes all other races, including other Elven races, are inferior. The Bosmer, or Wood Elves, are most like the Dalish (I do not say 'identical to'), living more in tune with the natural world, smaller, with light brown to light green skin (I did not say identical!). They are exceptional archers, hunters and woodsmen. Extreme hard-line Bosmers never eat or drink plants of any kind for religious reasons and have come up with ways of fermenting milk and animal blood to make alcoholic beverages (remember, not identical!). They also have to eat _whatever_ they kill, so it is wise to find out how religious a Bosmer is before you accept any dinner invitations they may extend to you.

The Dunmer ran afoul of the same goddess who created the Khajiit and were turned grey-skinned as a result. The exact shade of grey ranges from medium to nearly black, sometimes with hints of green, blue or even lavender. Those tints are seen as a mark of beauty, rather like being blonde or red-haired among humans. In terms of height, they fall in between the Altmer and the Bosmer. Displaced from their homeland of Morrowind by a volcanic eruption, they, like you, emigrated to Skyrim, where they are the only race confined to an alienage, but only in one city, Windhelm, and only if they choose to live there. Elsewhere they are free to live where and as they choose. Some have achieved success as merchants, mages, and mercenaries, but they face more prejudice than anyone but the Argonians and the Khajiit.

The Orismer, or as they are more commonly known, the Orcs, are physically rather like a cross between elves and the Qunari. Very tall and powerfully built, they have pointed ears, tusks and darkish skin which ranges from greyish-brown to greenish-brown. Most live in strongholds where they can live in accordance with their own ways, which includes polygamy. Most chieftains have more than one wife, and among the elven races, their race alone seems to have escaped the curse of dwindling fertility. Orc strongholds are the one place I have ever seen even one elven child, let alone several in the same family. Given that their race was supposedly the result of a curse, it hardly seems like a curse in that respect.

The Maomer are the Sea Elves. They reportedly live in the sea and have nearly transparent flesh. As Skyrim's only coastline is to the extreme north and choked with icebergs, it seems likely they all live somewhere warmer. I have never met one.

Where, you will be asking, are the Dwarves? The answer is: Nowhere. The Dwemer are extinct, and I doubt very much that the Dwemer were what we call Dwarves. For one thing, all their artifacts, including armor, beds, and chairs in Dwemer ruins, indicate they were of about the same height as the Dunmer. They were also an elven race, with the same pointed ears that all elves have. Some say that they were called dwarves by the giants. (who are another story entirely. Personally, my theory is that they are actually Bosmer men who suffer from a rare congenital hereditary disease which causes them to grow several feet taller than normal. They have distinctly elven features and there are no giant women. The Bosmers are very silent on the subject.) At any rate, they were technologically advanced, focused on science and logic over religion and magic, and incurred the wrath of Azura, like the Dunmer. They also seemed to have mistreated the Falmer, or Snow Elves, when the Falmer came to them for refuge.

Moving on to the Falmer…Many centuries ago, the Falmer were driven to seek refuge with the Dwemer as a result of conflicts with the Nords. The Dwemer did not welcome them as kin, but as slaves who they forced to take toxins which rendered them blind, degraded their intellect, and caused them to become twisted and stunted. The few I have seen living in Dwemer ruins are pitiful to behold, but extremely dangerous, the more so because they are still very powerful mages. They also keep Charaus as domesticated animals. No one living has ever seen a Snow Elf as they should be, but by all accounts they were shorter and paler than any of the races now extant. That is where _you_ come in…

* * *

A/N: Clearly Anders hasn't met the two last remaining Snow Elves yet and therefore, the events of Dawnguard haven't yet taken place. He may also have made some mistakes, seeing as he is not a native. Or it may be a plot point dropped in on purpose.

Thank you very much for your reviews. (Especially Ceg. Your last review made me laugh a lot.) I know I am getting behind on my review replies, for which I apologize. From several of my reviews, I gather that the excerpts are favorite parts of the story. Would you like to see them more often?


	11. Whiterun

Once we were on the other side of the mountain, it was as if time rolled backwards several months, from deep winter back to early winter, and early winter back to autumn. The landscape smoothed out too, from rocky ridges and pine forests to rolling tundra, alive with rich oranges and yellows. It also got considerably warmer, to the point where I could take off the tent-cloak, (which was now due for an appointment with needle and thread after the troll attacked it) and roll it up.

To someone who for more than a year had seen little but Blighted lands, the Deep Roads, and the neglected holdings of Amaranthine, these plains teeming with life were a relief and an affirmation. The smallest bird chirping in a shrub was a reason to be glad, after the eerie silence of vast swathes of Blight-struck Fereldan.

This was Whiterun Hold, Eryka told me, and there in the distance was the city of Whiterun, our destination. We made much better time now on the road, and she pointed out features of the area, including the scorched and crumbling watchtower where she had killed her first dragon. But twilight was falling before we got to the far-flung farms surrounding the city, and it was full dark, not to mention getting cold, when we pulled up in front of the stables.

My first impression of Whiterun is, therefore, 'Big' and 'Dark'. Oh, and 'Running Water'. There were a lot of high walls around it. Leaving the carriage, we walked up the winding road over the drawbridge to the city proper.

Then we reached the gates. "Hold a moment," said a guard, lifting his torch to see our faces. "Ah. It's _you, _Dragonborn. Welcome back." He nodded at me, "Kinsman," and opened the gates so we could enter. She thanked him , and we went in. There were a few braziers of coals burning, a few torches, but other than those few pools of light, it was dark. We went past one dark building and stopped at the next, which Eryka unlocked.

"This is home," she said. It was pitch dark inside until she called up a mote of light. It was also cold, but here was a fire pit directly before us, the logs and kindling laid but not lit. "I've nothing to speak of for dinner in the house, but the Bannered Mare serves up whenever someone's hungry, so we'll go there. I want to stow my gear and change first, though." She put her sword away on a handy rack and swung her pack down from her back.

Eryka knelt to start the fire, but I stopped her. "I can do that. I can't change your clothes for you, though." I joked. "That is—that was rather inappropriate. I'm sorry."

She smiled, "It's all right. Make yourself at home. Don't light too many candles, though. I'm nearly out and I can't get more tonight."

"Right. Easy on the candles." She went up the stairs, and I called up fire, bathed the logs until they caught. Taking a long splinter of wood, I lit a candle I found by the door, and picked it up to have a look around the place. Upstairs, the clanks and thuds said Eryka was changing.

Her house was modest but comfortable, I decided. One room served as living room, dining room and kitchen; I could only speculate about the upstairs, but I had heard a door. Speaking of which, there was one in the space behind the stairs, but it was closed and I didn't want to pry. There was a dining table pushed against the wall with a single bench, before it, and a couple of chairs drawn up by the fire. One of them had dust on the seat; Eryka lived alone, then, and had few guests. Odd. Given how friendly she was with Rustleif and his wife, and her other appealing personal qualities, I would have thought people would be in and out of her house all the time.

Half the furniture was simple, unfinished wood, while the rest was carved, smoothed and polished. The metal pitcher and bowl on a shelf were handsome, but they were pewter rather than silver. Here and there she had baskets woven in two or three colors hanging on the wall. They served no useful purpose—they were just there to look nice. It was a cheerful house, but the fire pit struck me as a hazard. What did people do to keep very small children from falling in and being badly burned?

Ah, a bookshelf. I scanned the titles. _The Book of The Dragonborn_, On Oblivion, _Aedra and Daedra_. She had at least thirty books in this bookcase alone. Intriguing, but if we were going to eat soon, it might be best not to start now.

"So—this is where you grew up?" I called up the stairs.

"No," she replied. "I was born and raised in Markarth. The last few years I spent in High Rock, though." I heard a drawer sliding open and closed again. "I've only lived here a couple of months."

"So you bought this house on your own?" I asked.

"Yes."

I felt a new respect for my companion, and also a greater sense of what was possible here. A magic worker could buy a decent house and live in a city and if anyone complained, obviously they didn't complain all that hard.

"You know, for all the talking we did today, we never really talked about ourselves. What did you do before you took up adventuring? Do you have brothers and sisters? Is there someone waiting for you back in Markarth or High Rock?"

"If you want to know that sort of thing, you'll have to give as much as you get," she called back. "Come to the foot of the stairs."

"What for?" I said, going over there.

"Catch!" she chortled.

"—Ufffh." She had dropped something dark and furred down on me, and on inspection, it turned out to be a cloak.

"I think my tent does better as a tent than it does as a cloak," she said. "Here's one of my spares. They're always getting wrecked one way or another, so I keep a few on hand. I like to put cold-blocking enchantments on them like I do on the tent, but then I face a fire-breather and the cloak is ashes. See how you like that one!"

I swung it around my shoulders, realized I had it inside out, and turned it around. Made of dark grey fur, it had a lighter grey, black-flecked shoulder cape overlaying it, not unlike my feathered pauldrons. It had three closures down the front to the mid-chest, instead of just one at the neck. The hood was edged with the lighter grey fur, and the whole cloak was lined with it.

"I like it very much!" I called back to her.

"It's not too short? Or too narrow in the shoulders?" she asked.

"No. It's perfect." She was a tall woman, and if this cloak was a few inches shorter on me, it would hardly matter. As far as narrowness went—well, she was a woman but she wore heavy armor and I didn't, so the shoulders fit. It wasn't possible to say what her figure was like under all that bulky armor, but it was safe to assume she wasn't going to fit the Orlesian ideal, which says that a woman should be 'the most delicate flower on the slenderest stem'.

No woman who can sprint in heavy armor, do her own blacksmithing, and hack up frost trolls, not to mention dragons, could ever meet such standards. I was expecting her to be rather a big girl under all the metal…

She came down the stairs.

Um. Not_ that_ big a girl, but definitely not small either. A fine, well proportioned girl. In a dark red dress with a brown corset of tooled leather which wasn't cut low, but it didn't have to be because there was enough of her to fill it up and _eyes on her face_. When did the Maker give the Orlesians the right to dictate what is and isn't attractive, anyhow? Besides, Fereldan women weren't having any trouble meeting the Orlesian idea these days, not with the famine attendant upon the blight, and gaunt is not attractive. Starving is not a good look on _anyone_.

"So—where is Markarth, anyhow? And what is it, a hold or a city? I'm sorry if you told me before and I don't remember, but there's so much I've had to take in today. It's all starting to blur on me." I managed to ask.

"It's to the west, and it's the capitol of the Reach. It's the most fantastic city, with mad staircases going everywhere and waterfalls—at least I thought it was when I was a child. I haven't been back for—it's nearly seven years now. My mother still lives there. Oh, and I'm an only child. At least I'm _her_ only child." She put her tawny cloak on again and fastened it.

"Seven years away from home? What happened, did you break the law?" I joked.

"In a way, yes. An unwritten one."

I winced sympathetically. "Those are the worse."

"Oh, aren't they just? Let's go eat, shall we?" Eryka suggested.

"By all means." I blew out the candle, checked that the fire would neither go out nor burn the house down, and followed her out the door.

"It wasn't actually me who broke it," she chatted as we went up the narrow street. "I'm the result of it being broken, so to speak. I can guess what you're thinking, and no, I'm not a child born of rape. Your turn."

"-_That's_ good. I wouldn't wish that on anyone." I said. We passed a house set back from the street, and kept on walking. "I myself—well, I had two very normal parents, a couple of brothers, a little sister…When I was twelve I started doing magic, set the barn on fire, and was promptly hauled off to The Circle in handcuffs. That was…fourteen years ago. I have never seen any of them since then. In those fourteen years, I escaped from the Circle more times than I can recall, I was nearly executed several times, and finally wound up in…even more trouble. That is, until I boarded a ship for Kirkwall and arrived in a strange and wonderful place called Skyrim instead."

"I was nearly executed once," Eryka reminisced, "and when I say nearly, I mean very nearly. My head was on the block—I can still feel the wetness of the last man's blood, when I think about it." Her hand stole up to touch her neck.

"I've never been quite that close, but I came very near to it a few times. So what happened?" I asked.

"A dragon happened. I can tell you that there is nothing that will disrupt an execution quite so much as a dragon swooping down on it." she reported. "This is the market district. The city well's right there in the center. I know there's a stream running all through the town, but it's not that good as far as drinking and cooking are concerned. It's fine for washing and watering the garden, though."

"Good to know. I'll keep that in mind." Again, except for the occasional brazier or torch, it was too dark to make much out.

"And here's the Bannered Mare," Eryka led me up a few stairs and into warmth, light, and music.

"Ah, Eryka! Welcome back!" a pretty waitress greeted us. _Her_ dress was cut almost perilously low. "Who's this handsome fellow?" She looked up at me with curiosity.

"This is Anders," Eryka performed the introductions. "Anders, this is Olfina Grey-Mane. Olfina, a table if you would."

"Right this way," Olfina led us through the tavern. There were fifteen or twenty people there, a couple of families with children, several warriors in armor, a few off-duty guards, and a bard tootling on a flute. As we passed, not a few greeted Eryka with a wave, a word or two, or "Dragonborn!" called across the room, accompanied with banging their tankards on the table.

"Here you are," Olfina stopped at a table in a niche. "What'll you have?"

"Will you be guided by me?" Eryka asked.

"In everything," I replied with my most charming smile.

"Ooh, handsome and smart!" Olfina marveled. "I don't suppose you have a brother, do you?"

"Nowhere near here, I'm afraid," I shook my head.

"Oh, well."

"As if you needed one!" Eryka teased her with a knowing arch of her eyebrows. "Two platters of whatever Saadia sends, not cabbage stew by preference, and two of the autumn ale."

"Coming right away," Olfina swayed away, dodging pinching fingers.

"So," Eryka turned to me. "That barn fire when you were twelve. Was anyone killed?"

"No, not even a cow. We did lose a few bales of hay. I'm pretty sure it was because I was angry with one of my brothers—but it was half a lifetime ago. My mother wept when they took me away. My father was—I won't say pleased. Relieved is more like it."

"That shouldn't have happened," Eryka said. "It wouldn't have, here, but you know that already. Now, before I go making my decision, why don't you tell me about why you sometimes go all blue and crackly?"

"Ah. That." I started. "I—need an ale in me before I delve into that."

"Two ales right here!" Olfina delivered a couple of foamy tankards before disappearing again.

"Don't let me stop you," Eryka nodded at the drinks.

"Here goes…"I picked up mine and started in on it before Justice could interfere. He and I did not see eye to eye in matters such as drinking. In fact, I drank it all down in one long draught, inspiring calls of 'Now that's a man with a thirst!' from surrounding tables, and 'There's a Nord who knows what to do with an ale!' 'Olfina, get him another!'

I set the tankard down. "It began when I met the Warden Commander…"

TBC…

* * *

A/N: Ceg, thanks so much…and you got what nobody else did. Yes, Anders is serious…Sort of. *Huggles Lisa* Missed you! I was afraid you had gotten tired of my tale. Thanks!


	12. Potayto, Potahto

Olfina had done right by us when she seated us in the niche; despite the noisy tavern around us, we could hear each other and it wasn't likely we could be overheard. That was exactly what I wanted, given what I had to confide.

"Remember how I told you about the Grey Wardens, the warriors whose job it is to kill Arch-Demons?"

"Yes, the ones the Darkspawn dig up," Eryka picked up her own ale and drank some rather more slowly than I had done.

"Right. Well, the Grey Wardens have the right to conscript anyone into their ranks as needed in the event of a Blight, even if _their _head is on the block. That was what the Commander, Elissa Cousland, did to me. For me. Both _to_ me and _for_ me. I was going to be executed, basically for being a mage who didn't like to eat Templar shit, and she stepped in.

"The problem is, to become a Grey Warden you have to go through the Rite of Joining, which involves drinking a mixture of, among other things, Darkspawn and Arch-demon blood. If it doesn't kill you—and it does kill a lot of people—there are things you gain, like stamina and the ability to sense Darkspawn, but it also leaves you tainted, poisoned slowly from the inside."

"What does?" Olfina appeared with a tray. "I hope you're not going to say it's the ale, because the next round is on my Mum and Da. They're impressed by how you drink. Here's your dinner." She set a platter of food in front of each of us and a fresh tankard in front of me.

"They're the older couple across the way," Eryka said, raising her tankard to them. I followed suit, and they smiled, raising their own.

"If you need anything else, just call for me," Olfina said, but then someone at another table required her attention, and she left us.

One of the things becoming a Grey-Warden did for you was leave you with an appetite that would lead you to gnaw boot leather if there was nothing else to eat. The bread and cheese of that morning had been plentiful, the dumplings generous, but both meals were long gone and my belly was trying to digest itself. That didn't mean I couldn't regard my plate for a moment just out of aesthetic appreciation. There before me was a thick, juicy looking venison chop smothered in mushrooms, a huge pile of glistening carrots, and…

"Pardon my ignorance, but what's the thing that looks like a rock?" I lowered my voice as I asked.

"That?" Eryka picked up knife and fork. "It's a baked potato. Do they not have them where you come from?"

"No." I shook my head.

"Then you've been missing out! They're very tasty and nourishing, better even than bread. See, you break them open like this," she demonstrated with her utensils, releasing earthy-smelling steam into the air, "and then you sprinkle a little salt on them and put a pat of butter on them too." There was a dish of salt on the table for such purposes and a knob of butter on a little plate, and she put a pinch of one and a sliver of the other on the potato. "And then you eat it, skin and all. This is only one way of cooking potatoes. You can put them in soups and stews, boil them, fry them, mash them up, put cheese on them-it's endless."

"If you say so," I prepared mine as she did hers, and let the butter melt while I took a bite of venison with mushrooms. Oh. Thank you, Maker. It was so, so good... With the famine, even the Grey Wardens were living on tough salt beef and bread baked from weevil ridden flour, the sweepings of the miller's floor. I tried the other items. The carrots were sweeter than apples, and the potato was soft and fluffy on the inside, the skin crunchy and chewy both.

I paused for a moment before I annihilated the rest of the platter. "There was a time in my life, and it was not so long ago, when my idea of happiness was a decent meal in pleasant company, and the right to shoot lightning at fools." (I'd said that to Elissa Cousland, except I'd said 'pretty girl' rather than 'pleasant company' while what I'd really _meant_ was 'a quick tumble.') "The meal is more than decent, the company couldn't be more pleasant, which leaves only one thing. _Do_ I have the right to shoot lightning at fools?"

"If they try killing you first, yes. But you said 'there was a time'. What's your idea of happiness now?" Eryka asked, and the garnet color she was wearing suited her well, setting off the warm ivory of her skin and the polished-wood darkness of her hair.

She was lovely, she had heaps of character and personality both, and I suspected the generosity and kindness in her went down to the bone. There was nothing virginal about her, but there was an innocence to her that had nothing to do with the body, I thought. I truly had no idea how she would take the revelation that I went nowhere alone, that Vengeance was my constant companion. Certainly she wouldn't just be able to look past it. This might be the last time she ever looked at me like a friend and a man, the last time she ever spoke so easily and freely to me. But I hadn't answered her question.

"Now?" I stalled for time. The problem with having one decent meal was, a few hours later, I'd be hungry again. Tumble a willing girl, and soon enough, I'd be lusting for another tumble. After a while, you want all your meals to be decent, and instead of a fast poke up against a wall, you want someone in your bed every night, and the same someone at that. As for shooting lighting at fools—there is never a dearth of fools in the world, and eventually it would get boring. "Now—it's helping people." Specifically mages, but I was willing to expand. I could imagine a lot of Fereldans wanting to settle down here.

"That's a good answer," she nodded.

"Thank you," I took another bite of the venison, which had been aged to perfection.

"_If _it's sincere. I haven't forgotten about the blue and crackly part. You joined the Grey Wardens, survived, and—then you found out the bad news?" Eryka quirked her brows and waited.

"Yes. It cuts your life short, among other things. If the darkspawn don't get you beforehand, then in thirty years you start to go to pieces and your comrades lead you to the Deep Roads, where you can go out fighting the spawn in one last blaze of glory." Potatoes were my new favorite food, I decided, using some to mop up meat juices and butter.

"Thirty years," She shook her head. "You said you were twelve when you left home and that was fourteen years ago, so now you're twenty-six. How old were you when you joined these Wardens?"

"Twenty-four," I replied.

"That's how old I am. So you'd be fifty-four when Sovngarde beckons. Many people don't get that long in the ordinary course of things. Fifty-four is old bones for a man-at-arms, or a woman who's born a dozen or more children. I do see that it's young for a mage, though." She looked thoughtful and ate carrots.

"Yes," I said, wanting to ask exactly how long mages lived, but it would have spoiled my momentum. "But I was alive, if not precisely free, and in good company, for the most part. Among them was…You'd call him undead. Among them was the spirit of Justice, one of those created by the Maker before he made the world as we know it. He had been trapped outside the Fade by magic, and now he was inhabiting the dead body of a Grey Warden. Once while we were talking, he asked me why, now that I had escaped, I wasn't doing anything to help other mages. I said that that wasn't my problem, or words to that effect. But it got me thinking, and I realized how shallow and selfish I had been.

"Not long after that, Justice's body began deteriorating to the point where it could no longer sustain him. He couldn't return to the Fade, thanks to how he had been trapped, and he had no soul, so he would just…cease to exist. I thought the world would be a poorer place without Justice in it, so I offered myself, willingly, as his host. I wouldn't have to die to do it, and he wouldn't take me over. We'd just share one body, one mind, and together we'd work to bring justice to mages. And we were friends, so it had to be better than him just, just ending.

"Part of it _was_ selfish, though. Perhaps that's why things began to go wrong. The truth is, I saw how he kept Kristoff, that was the name of the Grey Warden whose body he was using—how he kept that body together for so long. And Kristoff was _dead_ before Justice got there. I didn't want to go mad and die in thirty years. Justice could stave off that fate. The problem was, once Justice and I had merged, he changed. I changed him. I never realized how angry I was until I suddenly had so much more power, and now, when something angers me, he comes out as Vengeance."

"So the blue-and-crackly is Justice?" Eryka asked.

"Yes." I finished my second ale, and Olfina swooped in with another.

"If all this had happened here, I'd know-Well, I_ wouldn't_ know, actually. It has to do with conjuration, that's the fifth school of magic, and it's the one people look askance at. Not all conjurors are necromancers, but it's certain that all necromancers are conjurors. A necromancer can reanimate a dead body, but not usually for very long, and when the spell ends, all that's left of the body is ashes. Conjurors can also summon lesser Daedra like Atronachs, they're a kind of elemental, but again, not usually for very long. Some can even summon Dremora Lords, they're not quite so lesser, but summoning one of those is risky. How long a summoning lasts depends on the skill and the power of the mage. A permanent summoning—someone who could do that would have to be on the level of the Archmage.

"Anyhow, it sounds to me like you ought to visit a Shrine of Stendarr and ask the Divine of Justice for some help. There's one to the west of here; we could go there in a few days. I've got to go to Riverwood first."

"Could we? I mean, you've made up your mind?" I was a little surprised at how she took the news I was possessed in stride. I was _not_ sure about visiting any shrines to pagan deities, however.

"Yes. I would like to hire you." Eryka took a long drink of her ale. She was still on her first. "The usual rate is five hundred up front and a quarter share of any treasure, and there _will_ be treasure. I'm _good_ at adventuring. If I think you need better equipment than what you have, I'll provide it, but it stays mine unless you recompense me for it. You'll eat as well as I do, and whether it's a tent in the cold or a fine inn, you'll shelter as I do too. I won't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do, and you're with me until I say we part ways or I die, whichever comes first. It would be nice if you would help carry things without acting like it's beneath you, and I would be grateful if you did. Usually the people I've hired have their own places or they make their own arrangements, but I've a spare room you could have. You'll sleep in your bed, and I in mine. That's all I'm offering, and all I'm asking for, you understand."

"Uh, yes, I do, but—why are you offering to _hire_ me? _That's_ what I don't quite understand. It's charity on your part. I hardly know how to do magic here, my current staff is worthless, and I don't even have a spare pair of smallclothes to my name. I have no idea what it would cost to equip me, but I have _nothing_." Not perhaps the brightest outburst I've ever had, but…I didn't want to be an object of pity.

"Well, if I pay you upfront, then you can buy your own smallclothes and spellbooks or whatever else you need. Or you could take my offer of a loan and go back to Dawnstar, and the alchemist's shop." She scraped up a forkful of mushrooms and ate them.

"It doesn't bother you that I'm housing an extra spirit?" I pressed.

"Is this leading up to you accusing me of being a Seducer Daedra again?"

"No, no." I hid behind my tankard of ale.

"Good. Look, 'Spirit' is another word for 'Soul', and if you're housing one extra, well, you're speaking to a woman with a dragon soul. I hardly have the right to judge you. And I—liked how you healed Seren and how you looked to see if I needed healing after the troll sent me flying. I've had four companions so far. You've heard about Lydia and Uthgerd; the other two were a mercenary named Jenassa, and a mage called Marcurio. She was clever but vicious, too fond of blood, and I knew before the day was out that I could not bear her for long. He began by claiming he was master-class when he was only at apprentice level, and then he moved on to fancying I fancied him, and boasting about it. He wasn't a pleasant traveling companion, either. He talked down to me. You—."

As opposed to the smooth delivery she had displayed when she offered me the job, now her words came out halting, as though she groped for them. "I like talking to you. I like traveling with you. You ask interesting questions and you—Will it be the alchemist's shop, then?"

"I don't think that would be nearly as interesting." I decided. "I'd rather stick with you."

Her answering smile was _radiant_.

And that was how I became the Dragonborn's companion.


	13. I can't think of a title to save my life

From **_The Immigrant's Guide to Skyrim_**:

Taboos: There aren't many of these in Skyrim, which is very open-minded about some things that may surprise you, such as marriage. The Divine Mara, patroness of family life, has stated that love which leads to lasting commitment, wherever it may grow or whatever form it may manifest in, is never wrong . As long as both parties are happily consenting adults, gender, race, and age are meaningless. Likewise, whatever you do in the privacy of your home is your business and unmarried persons can live together under the same roof without causing a scandal or ruining anyone's reputation, again provided that everyone is a happily consenting adult.

Although good to know, that is straying away from the topic at hand: Taboos.

1. Milk. Once you have a full set of permanent teeth, being called a 'Milk-Drinker' is an insult. If someone calls you that, you can howl back 'Call me a milk-drinker, will you?' and then either punch them or invite them to the nearest tavern where you do your best to prove them wrong. Either way, you'll make friends. Of course, you can also ignore it, but that will gain you no respect. (This advice is situational and you should judge for yourself.) If you don't drink for whatever reason, caffee (called kahve) and tea are available in most areas, and there is always water, although in the larger cities it is wise to ask which source is safest. The one exception is Riften, where I would make sure to always boil and filter the water even if it comes straight from the well or risk becoming much better acquainted with your chamber pot. Alcoholic beverages may be safer. _Eating _milk in the form of cheese and butter is fine.

2. Nudity, partial and full. Expect people to be upset if you are not covered up between the neck and the knees in public. (Women can get away with low-cut dresses and men with partial armor, as long as they're mostly clothed.) This is as much a matter of common sense as it is a taboo: it's _cold_ out there. People will think you are crazy. The exception is in the bathhouses , where you will sit around naked in a superheated room among people of both sexes and all ages, from toddlers to grandparents, before you then roll around in the snow or take a quick plunge in freezing water. For some reason, this offends nobody's modesty or sense of propriety. Few people have full-sized tubs at home, but most do have hip-baths or large basins for washing the essential bits. If you really want a private bath, you can go to an inn and order one. Expect to pay more for it than for lodging, especially in winter.

3. Necromancy, here defined as magic having to do with dead people or undead people and including but not limited to: reanimating corpses, bloodletting, killing and/or torturing people to enhance your own magical power, entrapping the souls of the dead for whatever purpose, including in soul gems for enchantments (the use of animal souls is acceptable), the desecration of corpses, the coercion or enslavement of ghosts, raising the dead for whatever reason, committing murder or exhuming bodies for the purposes of eating them or reassembling them into other forms, and doing any of the above to gratify your lusts. This one I stand firmly behind as a human being, a mage, and the head of the College of Winterhold. It's not merely a taboo, it's wrong, it's evil, and it will not be tolerated.

* * *

I woke the next morning with the alluring smell of bacon in my nose and hammering in my head. No, on second thought, the hammering was not in my head, it was coming from outside. The bacon was real, though. Better still, it was coming from inside the house, and I was in a house and not on a ship. Even better. I opened my eyes to see the underside of a pitched wooden roof. I was still in Skyrim, and more specifically, I was in the spare bedroom of Breezehome, Eryka's house.

I got up and dressed, noticing that my robe, having not only been torn by the bear but stained with spider venom, torn further still by pushing the carriage and fighting the frost trolls, had been dealt a deathblow by some sticky substance that smelled like honey. The question was, how and when had I managed to spill my mead? I remembered having more ale and more potatoes—people kept buying me rounds—then splitting an apple pie with Eryka. I had eaten a good three quarters of it and washed it down with mead. That last mead had a peculiar aftertaste, and after that events got murky.

Well, hopefully I would be getting some clothing today, and while I was at it, I planned to get something more practical, something that wasn't a full length robe. I was sick of them anyway. What else was I going to need besides clothing of all kinds? A comb and a razor sprang to mind as I ran my hand over the lower half of my face.

I went downstairs as Eryka tapped a spoon on the side of a pot over the fire. Today she wore rich green, but everything else was the same. Same pretty hair, same lush mouth, same figure that made my mouth go dry and my palms go damp.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully. "You're looking very well for someone who drank what you did last night. Everyone was impressed, most of all because you drank a whole tankard of Black-Briar Black Label. Usually Hulda only serves _that_ up in thimbles. Since you don't have your head in a bucket heaving it all up now, I'll take it as a sign that you'll want breakfast, which is oatmeal, bacon and tea."

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble for me," I began, but she interrupted.

"It's no more trouble making breakfast for us both than it is to make it for just myself. You can do the washing up afterward; I hate that part." She scooped oatmeal into two bowls, set them on the dining table and sat down.

A wise man knows when to leave it alone, and we were busy with fixing our bowls, pouring tea, and dividing the bacon. "It smells wonderful. About last night—what was in that last mead? It wasn't just fermented honey." I asked.

"I'm not sure. Mead's easy to make, so everybody makes their own and everybody has their own special recipe. Some put in herbs and spices, others add berries, and then the honey itself makes a difference. People plant whole meadows of just one flower for their bees. Lavender honey is my favorite. Black-Briar Meadery is secretive about it, but if I had to guess there was some nightshade honey in it."

"Nightshade honey? That sounds toxic." I observed.

"It is. Anyhow, while I do need to go to Riverwood to sort out the person who goes around leaving notes, I don't plan to do it today. I've things to sell and supplies to buy." Eryka said.

"Like candles?" I waved my spoon at the chandelier.

"Exactly. Also, I want to visit the baths. I spent three days in that armor and my skin's crawling."

"All of that is fine with me," I said. "Especially since if the tears in this robe get any longer, I'll be at risk of indecent exposure. I don't want to find freedom as a mage only to be arrested for that."

She laughed—I have said nothing of her voice, which was a little deeper than that of most women, and a little raspy. It had changed, she told me later, when she learned to Shout. "In Skyrim, exposure's not so much a crime as it is evidence of insanity. Unless you're in the sauna, of course."

"Of course." We finished our breakfast, and I cleared the table. There was a big kettle of hot water and a bucket of cold, so I began scrubbing up while she opened the doors to the side room behind the stairs. Glancing that way, I caught a glimpse of a bookshelf with a chest on top. Eryka was standing on a chair in order to hunt around for something in the chest.

"About your staff," she said, her words slightly muffled. "Here staves need charging up every so often. They're only good for so many uses, just like any other enchanted weapon. Maybe yours just needs a soul gem or two."

"I don't know what a soul gem is," I replied. "I've never heard of a staff or a weapon needing recharging, so I've no idea how to go about it."

"It's very simple. I'll show you in a moment…Dratted scale, come unstuck, why don't you?" That last part didn't seem to be addressed to me, so I scrubbed the oatmeal pot.

"Here," she said a few minutes later as I was finishing up by drying the spoons. "These are soul gems. They're used in casting new enchantments and recharging weapons and staves." She unknotted the drawstring of a suede pouch, tipping the contents out on the table. A handful of iridescent crystals, ranging from the size of a thumbnail to the size of a thumb, wink up at us. Some were dull, others bright. "You use a spell or an enchantment to trap the souls of animals in a gem like these as they're dying. I'd show you enchanting works, but the table won't work without candles, and as you know, I'm all out. Just watch this."

She had her sword in hand, and unsheathed it as she spoke. Picking up one of the smaller bright crystals, she touched it to the blade, and the gem melted into it, leaving no trace behind, like conjured ice. "Interesting…So is the sword itself." I had seen her use it, but I had not examined it up close. With a surface like lava in the Deep Roads, black crusts floating on bright orange-red, it also boasted a spark, a sphere of living light where the guard met the grip.

"Its name is Dawnbreaker," Eryka told me, sheathing it again, "and there's quite a tale of how I got it. It involves a Daedric Prince, the Vigilants of Stendarr, nearly getting killed twice by a very powerful necromancer, and far too many defiled corpses. That last part is why I'm not going to tell you about it right now. If I think about it I remember the smell and it turns my stomach."

"I would think even one defiled corpse is too many," I said, going to the corner where I had stowed my useless staff.

"You'd think so, but you don't fully understand until you're looking at a legion's worth. Here," She held out a few soul gems.

"I'll be very surprised if this works," I said, accepting the crystals. "Here goes…"

I touched one to the shaft, and we watched breathlessly as nothing whatsoever happened. "I thought as much," I said, explaining about lyrium and the decayed potions, which interested her.

"I think you should show those potions to Arcadia and Farengar and tell them what you told me," Eryka said, sweeping the gems back into the pouch. "Arcadia is the alchemist here, and I told you about Farengar."

"Right…the disdainful court wizard?"

"Yes," she replied. "Oh, and before I forget, here's your pay." She put a large coin purse down in front of me. "Count it now or not as you choose, but don't complain about it being short afterwards."

"I trust you," I told her, hefting it—it was heavy—"After all, it's your choice to pay me anything at all." I did unlace it to have a look at what had to be more money than I had ever owned, or even seen, at any one time in my life…and discovered it was _gold_. I'd been expecting silver. "How much is this?" I asked, hastily tying it shut again. "I mean, in terms of how far it will go. Will this buy me a house or, or…? I don't know what."

"It won't buy you a house," Eryka said, putting her sword back on its rack. "You'd need ten times as much, at least. It'll buy you some clothes and a basic mage robe and some spell books and things. Don't worry if it doesn't seem like much. As I said, I have a knack for adventuring and whatever else you really need, I'll supply."

"Lovely. I always had ambitions of being a kept man," I said to myself, feeling a little dizzy. Luckily she didn't overhear.

* * *

A/N: I didn't mean to let a whole week go by between updates but I work retail, and at the holidays that means I'm exhausted and unfit to write anything.


	14. Out and About

I paused on the doorstep to look around at the city of Whiterun. I suppose I had expected it to be like Dawnstar and Morthal, only larger. It was not like Dawnstar or Morthal, nor was it like Amaranthine or Denerim. Whiterun was…remarkable. It looked strong. It looked old. It looked well-weathered.

"So this is Whiterun by day." Eryka announced, waving around at it. "What do you think?"

"I like it," I said, looking around.

Whiterun had more character than quite a few people I'd met in my life, and that doesn't even include Templars. It had—this may not be the right word, but I'll say it all the same—it had _integrity_.

There wasn't a section of hovels and another of mansions. Some of the houses were larger, some were quite small, but they were all built equally well from the same materials, with an eye toward making them handsome as well as sturdy. Each house had a plot of land in keeping with its size, and many people had garden patches,(Eryka's Breezehome had one against the south wall to take advantage of the sun.) or a pen for a milk-goat or pig. It was all of a piece, this city. Whoever planned it clearly believed that everyone had the right to live decently. Justice even approved of it, in his way. The only exception to this equality was the stately castle which guarded the city from the hilltop. That was grander, true, but in scale, not in concept.

I looked up, shading my eyes. Skies are never so blue as in the autumn, when they contrast against all the other rich colors the earth assumes for the season—the sere yellow of the grass, the orange-leaved bushes, the scrubby wild flowers. The city itself was part of it, the mellowed pale colors of the buildings set against both. What a wonderful place.

I shook myself mentally, and asked "The marketplace is..to the right?"

"Correct." Eryka led the way. The reason for the hammering was now clear; Breezehome was right next to a blacksmith, who waved a hello from her grindstone. It was not far to the market square, but it was slow going as it seemed as though everyone paused to say hello to my companion. I did not mind, as I was still taking it all in, in several sense of the phrase. She fed me little details about the people we passed. (_he and his wife just had their second child and we're all glad it's a boy,_ _she owns a share in the stables_, _if he'd only sober up there are any number of ways he could make a living, but instead he begs_.)

My companion? My_ employer_. Odd notion; I mean, yes, I'd belonged to the Circle and the Grey Wardens, but neither of them paid me anything or gave me any choice. This was the first time I'd had an actual job. (The Pearl didn't count; that was just a quick money-raising venture, and honestly, it couldn't be called _work_. Most of the time, anyhow.)

"Yoo-Hoo!" someone called. "Eryka, dear!" An elderly woman waved to us from a bench next to her cottage, next to Breezehome but set further back.

"Olava! No, _don't_ try and get up. What do you need?" Eryka hurried over, putting a hand up to forstall the poor old thing from heaving herself up and probably toppling over in the effort.

Olava was as wrinkly as the last ancient apple in the bottom of the barrel, but her raisin-dark eyes twinkled at us. "Need? Why only to bid you a good morning, dear—and perhaps have a look at the young man the whole city is buzzing about. Oh, he _is_ a pretty one!" She peered at me with the boldness of someone who knows her age means she can get away with saying anything. "I'm a bit of a fortune teller, dear boy. May I have a look at your hand?"

I smiled and held it out for her. "I'm Anders, by the way."

"That I know already…Oh, you've quite a life ahead of you and behind you, I can see it clear as day." She squinted at my palm myopically. "My, just look at that heart line—."

"Olava, this is hardly fair," Eryka protested teasingly. "You've been promising me a reading for months, yet you're looking at his as soon as you meet him."

"You don't have to be jealous, dear. I just wanted to hold a handsome lad's hand for a moment. It's been so long I've forgotten what it's like! Ohhh, he even blushes!" She gave my hand a squeeze and let it go. "Enjoy your day, dears."

"Well!" I declared as we left Olava enjoying the sunlight on her bench.

"Olava's old and lonely and has no family," Eryka explained. "She is very kind to the children—tells them stories and such for hours on end. Her hands are still good, so she knits things for sale. Don't ask her to make you socks, though, she's not much good at turning a heel. "

Casting a glance backward, she frowned at Olava's cottage thoughtfully. "That roof could use some help… Well, this is the market, once again. We're a little early, but Belethor should be unlocking his door about now. He runs the city's general goods store. Don't get any enchanted or magical items from him—if you want something with an enchantment, I know the most useful ones and I can do it later, and Farengar will have a better selection of everything else. Speaking of enchantments, here."

She took a pendant out of her belt pouch and handed it to me. "Put this on and tuck it out of sight, and your money will go further."

"What is it?" I asked, scrutinizing it. It was a steel-grey disc with the image of an anvil amid swirls of smoke picked out in silver.

"An amulet of Zenithar. He's the Divine of work, commerce and finance. You don't have to believe in him, don't worry. "

"Will it really work?"

"Did the cold-blocking enchantment on my tent work?" she shrugged. "Anyhow, I'm off to the bathhouse. That's it over there. I'll either still be in it when you're done, or waiting on the bench outside."

"Fair enough." I went into Belethor's and spent a candlemark, not to mention over two hundred septims. It was a illustrative lesson in the relative purchasing power of money, but I came away with clothes including a basic black robe, a pack, and other essential personal items. By playing around with the amulet, taking it off and putting it back on, I learned that it really did work and also that Belethor was a smarmy little git. (That last part had been rather obvious from the start.)

Leaving his shop, I went to the bathhouse, which also housed the town's laundry. That made sense: why waste all that fuel? Eryka was sitting on the bench, as promised, combing out her damp hair. "There you are," she said happily. "It's amazing what a good steam can do for your spirits. I was beginning to wonder. I've already paid for yours; go on in, and I'll make the rounds of the food stalls."

"Thank you," I said, and went in. An attendant showed me where to put my things, gave me a towel, a cloth bag full of soapwort, and a bundle of birch twigs, explaining that I was to scrub up with the soapbag and sluice down before I went into the sauna, which would ensure the room would stay clean. The twigs he did not explain, but I soon learned. Saunas are unknown in either the Anderfels or Fereldan, so I had a lot to learn, and, oh, did I learn. Heat. Steam. Naked people. All ages. Both sexes. More steam. More heat. Mild flagellation with birch twigs. (Nothing smutty or penitential about it; it promotes blood circulation.) Cool water to wet down your head, more cool water to drink so you didn't dry out like a draugr. Still more steam and more heat. Nobody talked much. I didn't mind.

I was saved from any embarrassing reaction to the lovely and naked young lady who I recognized as Olfina, our waitress of the night before, by two truths: the rest of the flesh on display was enough to put me off, and it was just **_too hot_** in there. I could see now that Eryka had managed things so we weren't in there at the same time, which was just as well given the arrangement as it stood between us.

I was too new to bathing that way to remain more than a quarter candle mark in the heat, and went into the cooling-room, where icy cold water was pumped over me. I shaved, since there was a polished bronze mirror handy, and dressed in my new clothes from the skin out. The attendant offered to give my robe to the laundry women, that they might clean and mend it, but I told him no, just throw it away. It was part of another life.

I left the bathhouse feeling very good indeed. My one indulgence had been a suit of fine clothes, blue with gold trim and a wide fur collar. Knowing that you are well dressed is always good for morale, but there was more to it than that. I was feeling much more like my old self, before—before I had begun to host Justice. He was being very quiet, but he was still quite present, curled up like a pillbug, in the back of my mind. He had kept me from getting drunk the night before, until the nightshade honey defeated even him. While it was amusing to think he might be suffering a hangover for both of us, the truth was, he was at a loss. He didn't know what to do, how to further our goal, so for the time being he was riding along as an observer. Another factor was that I simply wasn't angry right now.

As a result, my head was clearer than it had been for a long time, my thinking unmuddied. I had to remember that I functioned better this way. With luck, Justice would realize it too.

Eryka was at the greengrocer's stand when I rejoined her, The proprietress— Carla? No, Carlotta. We'd met in passing in the Bannered Mare the night before—was saying, "I'll have Mila leave the basket by your door. Thank you."

"No, thank you," Eryka turned and saw me. Her eyebrows went up and her mouth made a silent 'Oh'.

"Here I am," I said with a smile and shrugged. There I was, reading things into her reactions again.

"And you clean up very nicely," Carlotta said with a smile. "Good day to you both," she said as another customer claimed her attention.

"I shall start to get a swelled head if every woman keeps eyeing me like that," I said, glancing at the stallkeeper. "Present company excepted, of course."

"Some _men_ may, too," Eryka commented with a sudden grin. "We grow tough people here in Skyrim, but most are rather more rough-hewn than you."

"You surely can't count yourself among them," I said. "because…there I go again. I know you did not hire me to flirt with you. I'm sorry."

Her expression was unreadable for a moment. "This is Arcadia's shop," she said. "I hope you brought those potions with you."

"I did."

"Then let's go in."

Inside the shop was a mix of pungent odors, a mother dancing a crying baby on her shoulder, both dark-skinned like Seren, and a very pleasant looking older woman who dabbed a finger in a jar of paste.

"Open your mouth, Baurus, there's a love," the older woman crooned to the little one, darting in to smear the paste on the infant's gums. "This will make that owie go away."

"So it's really just teething and not colic?" the mother asked. "Because when Braith had colic—well, in some ways it _never_ ended." She sounded harassed.

"Just teething," the alchemist confirmed, and indeed, the child was already quieting down. "Now, you don't want to use too much at any one time, because the frost salts will leave blisters if it's laid on too thickly. No more than will fit on the end of your pinky."

"Thank you, Arcadia. Oh, hello, Eryka," the mother noticed us for the first time.

"Saffir," Eryka returned. "How's the most adorable little man in all Skyrim today?" she asked, reaching out to tickle the baby's toes.

"Well, he was fretful until Arcadia worked her magic. Excuse me, I want to go put him down for a nap while he's soothed. Good day to you." Juggling the baby, a satchel, a full market basket, and a jar of paste as only a mother can do, she left the shop.

"Eryka, I'm so glad to see you. I've got something I know you'll be interested in—just a moment." She disappeared into another room and came back with a clay pot. A thorny twig sprouted out of it, fringed with some autumn-yellowed leaves. "It's a rose bush, one that will grow where it's cold, and it's supposed to have white flowers and to be very fragrant."

"Ah, yes! I'll take it. Thank you. I've some more dragon scales, but I've another purpose than just bartering. This is Anders..." Eryka explained that I had some magicka potions that had unexpectedly gone bad and I wanted to know why.

Arcadia nodded, took one of the potions, shook it up, and poured it slowly through a square of white cloth, filtering it so she could examine the residue more easily. "This looks to me to be expended atronach salts."

"Atronach salts? Those Elemental Daedra are made of salt?" I asked. My bafflement baffled Arcadia in return, from the look on her face.

"He's from a place in Solstheim where conjuration is forbidden," Eryka explained. "He doesn't know. When an atronach is summoned and killed before its substance burns out naturally, the substance left is a kind of mineral salt."

"Yes, and they have a lot of alchemical uses," Arcadia agreed, and took a dish of orange powder from a shelf. "These are fire salts. Flame atronachs are the easiest to summon, so fire salts are the most common. After that are frost salts, from frost atronachs, and then there are void salts from storm atronachs. I've heard there are flesh atronachs too, but I've never seen flesh salts. When you use atronach salts, there's always residue left in the retort. I just used frost salts in that salve for Baurus's gums, so I have some here..." She went to an alchemy table in the corner and came back with the retort, which she wiped out with another cloth.

"Here," She held the rag out so I could compare it to the lyrium sludge. The texture and color _were _identical. I took a tiny bit of each on a fingertip to taste them gingerly. The same taste, the same smell…

"May I?" I gestured to the fire salts. Arcadia passed them to me after a glance at Eryka. "Thank you…" I took a pinch of the powder, rubbed it between my fingers. It could be red lyrium in some form I was not familiar with.

Atronachs were minor Daedra, and only entered this world when summoned from Oblivion, I recalled. When here, they were made up of magicka and a substance that_ might_ be lyrium. There was something in that, but all the pieces had yet to be gathered.

TBC, as always.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers, but especially Lisa!


	15. Lyrium Delirium De-lyrium

From The Immigrants' Guide to Skyrim:

I have mentioned before that magic works differently here. Most people have at least a little magical ability, enough to start a fire or put a sealing spell on a food barrel to keep the contents from spoiling. Even if you have no aptitude for magic now, you may develop the potential for it here in Skyrim. If you cannot stomach the idea, _don't come_. Don't come with the idea that you're going to recreate the Tevinter Imperium here with yourself as First Magister, either. You are certain to be disappointed; the most you'll probably manage is to become just another pathetic necromancer living in a hole in the ground which smells like death.

The difference between the worlds, as I've stated before, is the abundance of lyrium in Thedas and the absence of it in this one.

* * *

"The skull is just for show," Eryka said, following my gaze with her eyes. "My enchanting station doesn't have one, but it functions just the same. It's the focusing orb that does the work. That is, when I have candles for it. They're the fire aspect. I'll show you when we get home. I've got a whole bunch of odd bashed up enchanted weapons and mostly worn out gear you can disenchant to get started. It's practically impossible to sharpen a sword or mend armor once it has an enchantment on it."

"I'd be very interested to learn how to place enchantments," I said, glancing over at the court wizard, who was still busy analyzing my decayed lyrium potion. "Is enchanting something else you picked up in the last few months?"

"No. Mother Hamal, the High Priestess of the Temple of Dibella, is one of the best enchanters in all of Skyrim. She taught me years ago. It's something that served me well even as a potter. Dishes that keep food hot and wine coolers that don't need ice sell _very_ well."

I don't know that I'll ever get used to such casual use of magic. I know I'd like to.

I tasted the fire salts, and recognized them as a form of lyrium, not so much watered down as tamed. Eryka had explained more about Atronachs, how they wore a physical form in this world as we might wear a coat. Their bodies were not them; their sparks of life merely returned to the plane from whence they came when they 'died' or were killed. Having been given life and form, the stuff of Oblivion—lyrium—changed into something you could safely give a baby for his teething pains. When used as directed, of course.

In the end, Arcadia's best guess was that the potion had been unstable, the work of a raw beginner at alchemy, and after Eryka was done bartering with her, we had left to consult with the other professional magical practitioner in Whiterun, the Jarl's court mage.

Farengar Secret-Fire took the remaining potion I had on me, shook it up just as Arcadia had, and then began running tests on it, dipping little bits of paper into it, dripping it into solutions in jars, and generally ignoring Eryka and me. Therefore we were making small talk.

I also took the opportunity to look around. Dragonsreach was by far the most impressive castle I'd ever seen, either inside or out. I could only see the Jarl himself from a distance, as he was holding court and hearing out two smallholders in loud dispute over whether or not one owned the other stud fees for the colt born to the other's mare because of a broken fence.

Almost as impressive in their way were the court wizard's quarters. They were clean, well-lit, had no excessive occult trappings or suspicious blood stains and generally said that wizard was quite a respectable profession here. Something to aspire to.

"Dibella—I don't think you've mentioned that Divine yet," I continued.

"She's the goddess of beauty, patroness of inspiration, and the protector of girls and women," Eryka replied. "There are quite a few men who have committed…offenses against believers only to find that they are never again able to so offend."

It was quite clear what she was hinting at. "It seems to me it would be more to the point if the goddess could do something about it at the time rather than afterward."

"There was a time when she could do that," Eryka nodded, "before the Oblivion Crisis. Since then, neither the Divines nor the Daedric Princes are allowed to touch the world directly. Now they can only accept petitions at shrines. Although the Princes do tend to cheat…"

"You. Anders, was it? You say you are of Solstheim?" Farengar straightened up and leveled a piercing look at me.

"Yes," I asserted.

"And it was there that you came by this potion?"

"Yes," I repeated.

"When you bought it, it was not in this state. It was a good potion, and of a kind you have taken before. Is this so?" Farengar persisted.

"Yes." My part of this conversation was getting rather tedious, not to mention putting me on the spot.

"Solstheim is known to be a very strange place, but I had not known it was as strange as that. I may have to take a leave of absence to travel there, but not before I procure lead-lined gear. That is the only known protection against the ills that follow upon contact with such a concentrated substance as this was. You have been very, very lucky, young man." Farengar was as condescending as Eryka had warned, and he compounded that flaw with a droning, flat voice.

"What sort of ills? And what is, or was, that substance? Why did it decay?" I knew fully well how dangerous lyrium was, of course, but I was playing a role.

"I think a demonstration will aid greatly in my explanation," he began pedantically, taking a loosely corked bottle from one shelf and another similarly corked bottle from a cupboard. Placing the bottles on his desk, he uncorked each "I do not know how it is explained in Solstheim, but it is well known in the civilized world that what we call magic entered the world when Magnus, the god of sorcery, withdrew from its creation, spilling his substance and casting it forth over Mundus, the world."

"_Just_ like a man," I heard Eryka mutter, and I had to cough to cover my laugh. Farengar was not being deliberately funny. He really was that stuffy, not unlike Justice in certain regards. Outside in the Great Hall, the smallholders were having a similarly themed argument concerning the wayward mare and the straying stallion.

"It is that substance, his substance, which we call magic, and it exists in greater or lesser measure in all things both living and dead, but the loss of it cost him dearly," Farengar went on, taking a dish of white crystals from his enchanting table. "He also tore a massive hole through the fabric of Oblivion leading to Aetherius, the home of the Divines which encompasses Sovngarde and the other afterlife planes."

"Now, " he said, taking the dish and pouring about half the contents into one palm, "the liquid you see in these bottles is water. This is nothing more than common table salt." He funneled that handful of salt into one bottle and then repeated the process with the rest of the salt the other bottle, replaced the corks, and pushed them in my direction. "Agitate these, if you would be so good. Shake them up."

"I am aware of what 'agitate' means," I said, demonstrating by doing so.

"Very good. Through that hole in the planes leaked some of the substance of Oblivion, settling upon the earth. At that same time, the heart of the god Lorkhan was torn from him in the throes of the creation of Mundus and cast down upon the earth, causing an immense crater which collapsed upon itself, throwing up great clouds of matter and covering the raw Oblivion, compressing it into solid form and encapsulating it. For many centuries it remained so, with the natural action of the earth mounding up upon it and creating what was known as the Red Mountain. Keep agitating," he gestured.

Eryka reached out for one of the bottles and took over the task of agitation while Farengar continued to talk. "While Red Mountain erupted several times before the Third Era, it then that the eruption was so large that vast clouds of raw Oblivion were uncovered, burned, and blown into the air, falling back in the form of ash over Morrowind and Solstheim. This caused the Great Blight—don't drop that!"

The reason I fumbled the bottle was because it now all fit together. The Blight here—the Blights of Thedas. The Maker, the god who left the playground and ran home with his toys was also Magnus, the god who pulled out and tore a hole between worlds. Trailing the raw substance of Oblivion behind him. he used it, along with the other broken bits of worlds, to make the world of Thedas. Of course I didn't know the _details_; this was intuition, not proof.

"I think that is enough agitation. Place the bottles on my desk," Farengar instructed.

We did so. Salt still lay at the bottom of my bottle, its crystalline edges softened, but still solid. In Eryka's bottle, there was no trace of it. "It is a matter of oversaturation," he explained. "The water in your bottle already had as much salt as could be dissolved in it. I use it to clean my teeth, which is why I had it on hand. The other bottle had fresh well water in it. The area of Solstheim you are from must be impregnated so thoroughly with the stuff of raw Oblivion that it can remain whole. In areas not so afflicted, Oblivion decays rapidly, its substance dissipating in the air. Is your area much afflicted with the Blight?"

"You have no idea," I replied grimly. Lyrium. Lyrium the poison, lyrium which enhanced magic and put mages into the Fade at their Harrowing. Lyrium which caused paranoia, irrationality, emotional instability. Lyrium which killed. Lyrium which so saturated Thedas that it existed in solid form. Lyrium which impalpably radiated harm as a burning coal radiated heat.

Lyrium, which I had carried around with me in my belt pouch, infused in my staff, the head of which was always by my head. Lyrium, which Justice thought so beautiful, which sang to him…

What might have happened to me had I remained in Thedas, where lyrium was everywhere? Might I have lost my own mind? Happily, that I shall never know.

* * *

A/N: A very bad week. Much work, much craziness. No time for writing, but I stole some hours and wrote this anyway. Thank you to all my readers and _especially_ my reviewers.


	16. The First Temptation

However, that was not the time for pondering philosophical or theological implications about the nature of the worlds or how they were made, let alone why we Thedans wound up with such a piss-poor shoddily made one, riddled with lyrium and cursed with a leaky Veil. Farengar had opened up the chests and wardrobe where he kept his stock-in-trade: spell books, robes, scrolls, and oddments of jewelry. It was the books which drew me—Candlelight, Oakflesh, Bound Sword (what might that do?) Conjure Familiar, Ice Spike, Lightning Bolt, Calm, Muffle, Steadfast Ward, so many others…

I wanted all of them, but the ones that interested me the most were those that we didn't have in Thedas. Practically speaking, however, the destruction spells would likely prove to be the most useful. At least my abilities as a healer had carried over and I would not have to start over again from the beginning there. However, my funds would only run to two or three, perhaps four or five if I only bought novice level spells. I had a suspicion that novice level spells would prove to be underpowered while adventuring with Eryka, so I compromised, choosing Candlelight because it was very likely that we would wind up in various crypts, dungeons, tombs, etc. I doubted that the highly flammable Draugr would go to the trouble of keeping up on candles, torches, and sources of light. For one thing, where would they shop for their supplies?

Fireball I had mastered already, so no need to repurchase that spell. Cold-based spells seemed superfluous in a land where it apparently snowed nine months out of the year and hailed the other three—anything that could live here would be toughened against ice and frost already. Lightning Bolt, on the other hand, was a necessity now that I had the right to shoot lighting at fools. Knowing what I knew now, Conjure Flame Atronach was particularly intriguing.

Setting those three spellbooks aside, I looked at the robes, only to discover that I could not afford even a novice set. Never would I have imagined it could cost well over a thousand in gold for a set of novice mage robes. Even being told that such robes were essentially indestructible and were sometimes handed down for generations did not alleviate the shock. I liked the idea of mage families, though, even if, thanks to the Taint, the chances of my ever siring a child were very slim. That did not rule out ever becoming a father, however. If my hopes bore fruit and the mages of Thedas relocated to Skyrim, there would be children among them, the Circle apprentices, who would need homes and families. I would like to watch mage-born children grow up in a world where 'Tranquil' meant nothing more than 'peaceful'. I wanted that very much.

In the meantime. I had spent all but eighteen septims of the five hundred I started with, and I was not the only one with business to transact. Eryka unfurled a jewelry roll of soft suede and began negotiations with Farengar. I excused myself to go off in search of the privies. One of the maids gave me curt but useful directions. After using the room and washing up, I left, only to hear someone crying nearby.

"Please, _somebody_…Let me _out_."

The voice was muffled to a hoarse whisper, but it sounded like the same woman who had directed me to the privy in the first place. "Where are you?"

"In here…in the closet in the back of the storeroom. The Jarl's son Nelkir…he's a terrible child. He shoved me in and locked it…Please, sir. I can't stand being trapped, and the air in here—." I had been hesitating at the doorway to the room, but if there was any plea that would move me more than another she could have made, it was that.

"In the back of the storeroom, you say?" I asked, crossing the room.

"Yes..I think he blocked the door with a cupboard," the maid replied. I had overheard snippets of conversation among the Jarl's children in the adjoining main room while visiting Farengar's quarters and I had already written them off as spoiled brats, so the idea that one of the sons was naughty came as no surprise. Except that I would have thought that shoving a cupboard over the doorway would take more strength than a lad of his years possessed. I had to get my back into it to get the cupboard to budge.

Sure enough, there was a door behind it. I tried the knob, but it was well and truly locked. Still, if I had let locks stop me, I would only have escaped the Circle two or three times. Lockpicks? Don't make me laugh. I used a spell, what else? A strand of my hair, a bit of thread, the right words, and the bolt retracted.

"There you are," I began, opening the door to…nothing but an empty room, and I knew I had made a terrible mistake as something like cold vomit seeped into my mind and started filling in all the small spaces. My shadow against the back wall had far too many arms to be my own.

A sultry voice, neither male nor female, whispered "Thank you," in my ear, with no breath to stir the air. "Won't you come into my parlor?" it invited. I did not dare turn my head and look into the face of whatever was behind me.

"Away, foul creature!" Justice surged to the fore, and I had rarely been more glad for him to take over.

However, the speaker, the presence, quieted him, suppressed him with no more than, "Shhh, shhh, shush, little thing. Justice you may be, but Justice is no more than a fragile and imaginary concept in the minds of men, when it exists at all, and_ I_ am Mephala. Mephala, the Web-Spinner, Prince of Seduction, of Lies, of Plots and Betrayal." Suppressed was not the half of it. No, Justice had run for cover. Mephala _frightened_ him. I knew his every emotion, such as they were, and he had never, _ever_ been afraid before.

I was left in charge once more, sudden and alone in my head, and I was aware of how badly this could go. "You are…a Daedric Prince?" I guess.

"Oh, yes. _Very _good. Now, look to that table, there. What do you see?" I had faced demons down, both in the Fade and out of it, I was at Elissa's side when she faced the Baroness, the Architect and the Broodmother, I had battled Abominations and Shades, but all those were ants to the ogre that was Mephala.

"I see…a table with a sword and a book on it." I pushed out, because that was all that was there. It was a curious sword too, with a very narrow blade, slightly curved and darker than black.

"That is correct. The book is tedious. It is the sword which concerns you now. That is the Ebony Blade, and it is a piece of my substance. It is thirsty. Very thirsty."

"I would be more than happy to fetch it a stoup of wine," I offered.

"Hah. Hah hah ha. Very amusing," Mephala did not _laugh_; it said the words as though reading literally from a page. "The Blade does not thirst for wine or mead or even simply blood. It is betrayal which sates it, betrayal which powers it."

"As interesting as that is, I do not know how it concerns me," I said very carefully. "I've never used anything larger than a belt knife. Now if it were a staff—."

"You grow less amusing. Its form is not mere whim; betrayal cuts very deep indeed. Nothing could represent it but a blade. Slay someone who trusts you with it, and it will grow in power. Take it. Slay the _Dragonborn_ with it, and when her lifeblood stains its blade, I will tell you how to cut a door between the worlds so that you can lead your people here through it. Her life for all of their lives. Is that not fair? What say you to that?"

"What do I say? What do I say?...I say I would be a fool. I say I would be vile and ungrateful and unworthy of the life she saved." I began.

"Oh, yes," It snickered like silk tearing. "You_ would_ be. But I don't expect you to accept my offer _now_. I can wait. Get to know her better. Charm her. _Have _her. Love her, if your heart so moves you. Go out into the world and hear what my brethren will want for the same service I offer you now, and when you realize there is no other way, and that at least the sword will be quick—I'll be waiting." The presence retreated, and suddenly the storeroom and closet were nothing more than ordinary rooms, my shadow as normal as ever.

I left the sword and the book where they were, relocking the door and moving the cupboard back into place before I staggered back up to the Great Hall feeling wrung out and tossed aside.

Eryka was speaking to a well dressed older man. "—repairing the stonework on my house. Also, my neighbor Olava's roof is falling to pieces, and the weather will only get worse. It needs to be re-thatched entirely. Here is some coin for that—if there is any left over, let it go toward restocking her woodpile. You need not tell her who paid for it, either. Just say it was her friends and neighbors."

Oh, yes. Betray and kill someone who not only saved my life but paid to have her elderly neighbor's roof fixed before the snows hit? If I could do that—if I did that—what would that make me? I wished I had the moral certainty that I would never do such a thing.

Of course, there was also more to Eryka than goodness and kindness. I had barely scratched the surface then, and I am still learning even now.

* * *

A/N: It is an unfortunate fact that the longer one goes between updates, the harder it is to get back in the groove. I apologize for any irregularity in tone and may well make some changes, but I wanted to post, damn it!


	17. A Piece of Work

Finished with that commission, Eryka turned to me and did a double take. "What's wrong? You've gone pale as wax and you look like you just lost your last friend."

_Not quite_, I thought. _Not yet_. "I was just in the privy. I fear something I ate didn't agree with me." I improvised. "Give me a moment and some fresh air, and I'll recover." I sat down heavily against a carved wooden pillar.

"Balls," she said succinctly. "At least to the first part. You and I've eaten the same things for days now, and I know the difference between shock and illness. Besides, you're a healer and you could have done something about it. What_ happened_?"

"I can't tell you." I tried, putting a hand up and rubbing my forehead.

"Now I _know_ I need to know. Come on, up with you. You said you wanted fresh air and a moment to recover, and you're going to get them. Then we'll talk." She led me as one might an invalid of uncertain strength, walking me up a short flight of stairs out onto a balcony which was easily the same size as the Great Hall. I said as much as we passed men-at-arms honing their skills.

"It was built to house a captive dragon. His name was Numinex, and that was his skull hanging over the Jarl's throne," she explained.

"Amazing view," I said as we reached the far end, because it was. You could see for miles, over the fields and plains to the hills beyond.

"So it is," Eryka agreed. "Sit down, all right?"

Out here at the end was a trestle table and chairs there; it was laid with a platter of cold sliced meats and cheeses, with fruit, bread and wine close at hand. "Won't someone mind?" I asked first.

She slipped into a seat. "I'm a Thane of Whiterun Hold, and have the freedom of the castle and the right to board at the Jarl's table, not to mention the responsibility of helping maintain the bridges and roads. Plus if I'm ever taken as a prisoner of war, my ransom is set at twelve thousand septims. At least it was during the Great War. The price of a Thane's ransome may have gone up or down since then."

Since none of the guards was hurrying over to stop me, I took a seat across from her. "Where does 'Thane' sit in the hierarchy?" I asked. Anything to not discuss why I was upset.

"Above a knight, below a lord," she explained, pouring wine into one goblet and then another, sliding one in my direction.

"I see." Conversation, conversation, _anything_... I sipped wine. Those eyebrows said she was about to launch into questioning. "I know I asked why you bother with weaponry when you have magic, but I don't think I asked why you bother with magic when you know your way around a blade?" I pasted something like a charming grin on my face, but I fear it was more of a rictus.

Eryka smiled a little at that. "To put it plainly, as an archer, I am crap. Swordplay, how to use axes, maces, shielding and blocking, all that I learned fast enough, but my archery defies all help. I'm a little near-sighted, that's the problem. _You're_ clear as day, but halfway down the porch things turn fuzzy, and the doors back indoors are no more than a rumor to my eyes."

"Oh. I'm sure there must be a connection being bad at archery and needing magic that I'm not seeing. Don't people usually specialize?" I asked.

"I haven't got _time_ to specialize right now. I have to be out there _doing_ things. The connection hasn't got so much to do with magic, but it does have quite a lot to do with fighting dragons. They like to fight on the wing. Mind you, I've _tried_ talking them into landing so I can slaughter them properly, but as I've said, I have little luck in getting them to listen. I tried bow and arrow for a while, as I said...You wouldn't think it would be possible to miss a target the size of a dragon, but I assure you, it is. I needed some sort of missile, so I picked up a few spellbooks, and luckily for me, I've much better aim with a fireball or an ice spike. There you have it."

I laughed, and this time I did not need to force anything. "Forced into magecraft by poor aim. I see. That's a unique reason."

"_That's_ better," Eryka said. "You look less like you're dying now. Oh, here. Adept destruction robes." She passed me a bundle of orange and brown fabric, and I felt the enchantments without even having to put the robes on. They were made to collect magicka and funnel it into the wearer.

"These must have been expensive." I said, my voice sounding tentative and hollow in my own ears. If simple novice robes had been fifteen hundred septims, how much more were adept robes? Twice as much? Four times as much?

"You worry too much," she waved off my concern. "Believe me, I am not a septim out of pocket for these. I came away with all but four septims of Farengar's ready money, once all was said and done. If it makes you feel better, this counts as upgrading your equipment. They belong to me, and I'm just lending them to you."

"It doesn't," I pushed the robes back toward her. "I'm sorry, but you chose the wrong companion when you chose me. I can't—It's not that I don't like you, because I do. That's the problem. I might be more of a danger to you than anything you might face. I—had better lose myself somewhere in Skyrim and make sure our paths do not cross again. I will make good for what I owe you, somehow. I'll send it to you at Breezehome. I truly do regret this, but—I can see no other way."

Her brows drew together in the middle like a gathering thunderstorm, and she bit at her lower lip. "You are a piece of work, Anders of Thedas, and no mistake. All right. What _did_ happen to you in the quarter candle mark you were gone? Because that's where this has to have come from."

"I can't tell you—."

"Look, we made a verbal agreement last night, and you took my coin and shook my hand. You're in my employ until I choose to release you, and if you won't live up to your part, well, the Jarl is holding court downstairs. You can explain to me or you can explain to him; it's up to you._ I'll_ go easier on you." She sat back and raised an eyebrow at me, crossing her arms over her chest. (Which pushed her breasts together in a very interesting fashion, not that I was in a frame of mind to appreciate the view.) It also freed up a pendant she was wearing, a coppery flower set with a pink opal which popped out of her cleavage.

I considered the options, and my resolve weakened. I later learned that the necklace Eryka had on was at least partly to blame, as it was an amulet of Dibella and enhanced a person's charm as an amulet of Zenithar did one's ability to bargain. Not that she really needed any enhancement.

"Mephala…it said it was Mephala," I began, describing the encounter but leaving out the suggestion that I should bed her or fall for her.

"Thank you for not killing me out of hand," she said, when I finished. "I do mean that. It would hardly do for you to bring your people here only to be roasted and eaten by dragons because I'm the only one who can kill them properly and I'd already be dead."

"…That consideration had not crossed my mind," I confessed.

"Also, you have to consider the source." Eryka glanced away, remembering. "Making offers like this, that's what the Daedric Princes _do_. Peryite, the Prince of Pestilence and of tasks you _really_ don't want to do, wanted me to go and kill His champion for straying from His path, which means spreading horrible plagues and incurable diseases. Only to do it, I'd have to get through probably a hundred or more of His followers, which would mean killing them too, people who never did me any harm and who were sick and in pain as well. In return, He'd make me his champion and give me some trinket or other. That's why it's so dangerous to worship or deal with Daedra—Peryite cares no more for His people than something you'd wipe off your boot. He'd wipe me off with no more thought once He got bored with me, I'm sure."

"I suppose…I suppose it doesn't help that Mephala announced he, she, or it was the Prince of Lies and Betrayal," I considered, my dark mood beginning to dissipate. "One would have to be a fool to trust any promises he made."

"I'm sure she'd do her best to cheat you somehow even as she gave you what you wanted, but there are rules. The terms of the offer must be adhered to, even though it's not honored in spirit. Listen very carefully when one of them offers something. Look, that was only the first offer, and it follows that you'll get others." Eryka rubbed at her brow.

"Which is why it is for the best that we part ways," I pointed out.

"Not on your life, or more precisely, not on mine. If you're going to turn into a crazed assassin out to get me, I want you where I can keep an eye on you," she said acerbically. "Anders—if you will stick with me, if you will see my business through to the end, when the dragons are no longer a threat to Skyrim, then in turn I will work and not stop until your people are here and free. This I promise, and I will swear it on all three shrines here in Whiterun. Your cause will be my cause. I do not believe that only Mephala has the secret to opening the way, and what the Daedra can do, the Divines can do as well. With any luck, we'll come out of it with several gods owing us favors, and that can be when we collect."

Her face was clear and honest and glowing with sincerity. I looked at her, and something soft deep inside me wrenched painfully. For that promise alone I could have loved her, and I realized if I did, if I let myself—it wouldn't matter if I lost my hair or if she put on weight. It would be more than just bedsport, more than the urges of our bodies. At the same time, I was also angry, angry because all the other options were disappearing. I would never simultaneously seduce an Orlesian countess and her sister in a gondola on a summer night, I would never rescue a beautiful Tevinter slave-dancer and live on an island where we never wore anything, I would never be rescued by a wild warrior princess who lavished me with expensive clothes and—actually, that one was coming true, wasn't it?

I took a deep breath. "That's a very generous offer, and I may forever regret asking this, especially since it's a reprisal of last night, but—why? Why bother? Why are you being so nice?"

She was quiet for a long, tense moment. "Because I suffer under the burden of a human heart coupled with a dragon soul. Because most days the most dangerous dragon I battle is right here," she touched her chest. "Dragons are not known for helping one another—quite the contrary, in fact. To counter the impulses of the dragon, I help people. Whoever asks for help, I give it to them. When I see someone in need of help, I do what I can. While I can still feel the warmth of compassion, while I can still feel empathy, then I know I'm winning the war."

Maker's breath. I was in trouble now…

I was in love.


End file.
